


Dangerous Savior

by tenuous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Captivity, Dark Romance, Darkfic, Enemies to Lovers, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Stockholm Syndrome, Whump, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 20:07:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 58,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20441759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenuous/pseuds/tenuous
Summary: Beaten within an inch of his life by a biker gang, Ethan is saved by a hulking man named Tom with a chainsaw and an indifference for carnage. Except, Tom wasn’t exactly saving Ethan, he was protecting his family’s property from the bikers--and now Ethan has seen too much.It’s too late to run, and Ethan definitely can’t fight a man with Tom’s monstrous strength. There’s only one thing Ethan can think to do to get out of this alive: make Tom like him.No, more than that--make Tomwanthim.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a small, quick, original 50k-ish word story I wrote to try and learn to write something shorter than 100k+ lmao. It's meant as a homage to classic horror movies (but gay). It's pretty fanfic-tropey because those are my roots and what I like to read and it hurts me not to write a story that way. Comments are highly appreciated, it's so lonely writing original fiction when you love to share your writing lmao. 
> 
> Hopefully this is posted right! My fingers are sore from all the copy-pasting from a word document lol.
> 
> **Trigger Warnings:**  
This story contains explicit violence. The main romantic pairing, while always "consensual" is involved in a captor/captive situation that would inherently leave consent dubious/impossible in real life. One character experiences emotional and physical abuse from family members, some on-screen, some implied. One character experiences forced feminization, but not at the hands of his love interest. There is mentioned sexual assault and on-screen attempted sexual assault that is NOT between the main pairing. There is implied cannibalism. The dark romance is pretty fluffy. Please do not read if any of these things may upset you.
> 
> **DISCLAIMER: This is an "Explicit" rated work of fiction that should only be read by adults who feel confident that they will not be negatively influenced or harmed by fictional content. It is NOT intended for educational purposes.**

Everyone Ethan knows advises him against going on a road trip alone. They tell him it’s begging for a dangerous encounter that’s bound to leave him bleeding out in a ditch like a discarded fast food cup thrown from a car window. As if he’s so frail that he shouldn’t be alone walking down his own familiar hometown street at night, let alone traveling across the country on the open road without so much as a cell phone to contact the outside world.

Sure, Ethan was never the type to be into sports, but he’s not out of shape. He craves escape from his life like intense withdrawal and gets his fix through hiking almost every weekend. He’s slender, perhaps a bit short, but not entirely scrawny. Really, he doesn’t know what his folks are worrying about. He wonders, somewhere, in the back of his mind, if the way they constantly question his lack of girlfriend—and thereby, his sexuality—has anything to do with their insistence that traveling alone is dangerous.

No, it’s more likely that he’s paranoid.

Alone. That’s the problem. He’s doing this alone. 

These days no one does anything alone, not when minimum wage is too low to keep the rent paid on one income. Everyone has roommates if they don’t live with family.

But Ethan insists on doing this trip alone—and he gets exactly what he wants. No cell phone. No technology. Just himself, his beat-up van with a broken A/C, and the hot summer breeze whipping through his mess of auburn curls. 

If his life were a comedy movie, or perhaps horror, the vehicle would be packed tight with his friends, laughing and talking and growing closer. But Ethan’s been immersed in the world of drama and friendships for as long as he can remember. Thanks to the invention of the smartphone, he’s always had an instant link to everyone he cares about right in his pocket. 

He lost himself, somewhere, in the buzz of social media, hangouts and rushing through adolescence only to burst right into college. Life’s been a whirlwind for too long and Ethan is barely able to grab on to any path and keep himself there—there’s no time to even consider whether the path he thrusts himself on is the right one.

This road trip is a break from all that. From roommates and family, friends trying to push him to date; the ever-shifting daily chatter, the sound of the grind that snuffs out any quiet moment to think, to know, _really_ _know _himself and his own desires. 

He’s been going with the flow for too long, trying to keep up with it whipping his body in its rapids.

One summer. That’s all the remedy he needs to cure his exhaustion. One trip. Alone. And he’ll get sick of the romanticized notion that keeps clawing at the back of his mind—the one that entails running away from it all to live off the land on some hunk of acreage somewhere. Once he spends a whole summer driving through the dying husks of once-flourishing farm towns, he’ll dispel any notion that running away from society is a good idea.

Right.

And it’s fine at first, really. The days fly by. The sun beats down on his van’s dull, chalky exterior of scuffed paint, the metal searing his fingers whenever he stops for gas at the infrequent stations. Eventually, even during the height of the day, he’s still the only vehicle on the road. He mapped the trip this way on purpose—all back roads and ghost towns and broken down, threadbare solitude.

It’s a wonderful, worn sort of quiet. Its appeal hasn’t been snuffed by boredom yet. He still finds the vacancy peaceful. Maybe something’s wrong with him.

Today, a week into Ethan’s trip, it’s been a mildly concerning distance since the last sign of life. He’ll need to stop to refuel soon. On either side of the two-lane road stretches untended farmland, long abandoned and flourishing with overgrowth. The arm he has draped out the window as he drives absorbs the heat of the sun, skin red with the sting of it.

Ethan isn’t entirely foolhardy, he did pack his cellphone, it’s sitting at the bottom of his bag under several changes of clothes. Turned completely off. Just in case there’s an emergency, or he gets _really_ lost. 

But as it happens, without his phone he has no GPS. So he has to pull over in the middle of nowhere to go over the map he picked up at the last rest stop. 

It’s as good a time as any to eat some of his rations, which he planned to need at times like this when the road stretches on for dozens of miles without any sign of life beyond the buzz of cicadas.

Ethan settles on the grass by his van, the hot breeze doing nothing to help cool his sweat-slick skin. Staring out at the rows and rows of identical cornstalks, Ethan’s glad to have the safety net of his phone buried in his luggage, because the land is truly vacant for as far as he can see. If he happens to get stranded out here, finding civilization again will be a long, painful walk risking heat stroke and dehydration.

Just as he’s climbing back into the driver’s seat, a roar of engines flare up in the distance. The popping, boiling rumble of motorcycle engines. A quick glance at the rearview reveals several dark spots on the road behind him wavering in a mirage of heat.

Ethan buckles his seatbelt, eyes locked on the rearview mirror, a flicker of vague curiosity crossing his mind. The motorcyclists must enjoy long stretches of deserted road like this where they’re free to speed without consequence. He decides to wait, not wanting to pull in front of their small procession. 

As soon as the first motorcycle flies past, his van rattles with the velocity and proximity. The next bike passes. There’s a bang, a splintering crack. Ethan doesn’t have time to think, he ducks, alarmed.

The motorcyclists are shouting something as they pass. Jeering. Ethan can’t make out anything but a cruel tone.

His heart pounds in his chest as his van lurches again with another loud bang.

And then it’s over, the last of the motorcycles disappears in a whirlwind down the street.

Ethan swallows, his throat tight, dryer than the brittle leaves of the ruined crops that span in every direction. His pulse pounds painfully hard in his neck. The rest of his body feels numb, his limbs weak as if all the blood in his body has rushed to his head.

Mechanically, Ethan forces himself to move, to peer out the windshield. The bikers are specks in the distance again.

Fuck.

Why? Why why why? His brain screams the question at him over and over again—even though he knows why. Those guys are just some assholes, probably, who amuse themselves by fucking with strangers.

That’s all. That’s all.

And they’re gone.

So everything’s okay.

On shaky legs, Ethan climbs back out of his van and assesses the damage.

Rocks, large ones. The motorcycle gang threw rocks at his parked vehicle while speeding down the road. The rear passenger window is cracked badly, the panes splintered but holding shape. Shit. He’ll need to patch that up, somehow, to keep the glass from collapsing. Duct-tape? He’ll need to buy some.

Ethan runs his fingers over the dents knocked into the side of his van. Fuck. What if he had still been standing outside his van? He doubts the men riding the motorcycles cared what they were hitting. If he had been struck by the rocks instead…

But he hadn’t been.

Ethan shakes off the thought.

Shakes off the unsettling blend of dread and adrenaline that tells him to turn his van around and go back the way he came—away from where the motorcycle gang was headed.

He can’t turn back.

He’s been driving this vacant strip of road for too long. The last gas station is too far back at this point. And there’s no chance in hell he’s digging his phone out of his bag and calling for help over some strangers being assholes.

No. He needs to get back in his van and keep going. The next gas station can’t be far now.

He needs to not let this shake him. Needs to prove he can cope on his own, without having to run to share details of every life mishap with the first person he thinks to text. 

He needs to keep going—and that’s exactly what he does.

Ethan wasn’t wrong. The gas station is only two miles down the road. Its facade is rusted and caked in the dusty beige of dirt kicked up by the wind. It’s got a broken window, which is nearly opaque with a buildup of dust and grime. 

It’s the only sign of civilization Ethan has seen for miles. He would wonder if the place was even running if it wasn’t for the crooked neon _OPEN_ sign glowing through the grey of the window.

The building itself looks so uninviting that Ethan would have hesitated to stop here even if there weren’t four motorcycles parked out front. 

The riders are off their bikes filling up their tanks. They’re all gruff looking men, their features hidden behind helmets and visors. Their physiques are built up by bandanas and thick black leather vests. 

Ethan taps the brakes. He can’t. He can’t pull up to the gas station with those men there. He should make a U-turn. Leave right now as fast as he possibly can. But his fuel indicator is dangerously close to empty. He steels himself. Pulls over on the side of the road a dozen meters from the gas station. And he waits. Because that’s all he can do—wait for the motorcyclists to leave.

Like hell is he going to confront the men that had no qualms harassing a complete stranger. No, he’s going to shrink down in his seat, bite his nails, and bide his time, eyes locked on the men at the gas station.

Time passes.

For several long minutes, everything is fine.

And then it’s not fine. Not at all.

Ethan can see it—the exact moment one of the men notices his van. The man elbows one of his companions, gestures in Ethan’s direction. Heads turn. It feels like someone poured a glass of ice water down Ethan’s back.

His entire body freezes, he doesn’t breathe.

The men, all four of them, leave their bikes where they stand and start stalking over to Ethan’s van.

He should run.

Strike up the engine and speed away, as far away as he can get. But he knows from studying the map that there are no turns off this desolate road for a long while—these men could easily catch up to him on their motorcycles. Ethan will definitely run out of fuel before the next gas station.

These men won’t attack him in broad daylight, with the scorching sun and the gas station employees bearing witness, would they? 

No.

Then, why…?

It’s too late. They’re here.

One of the men with a bright red bandana wrapped around his head bangs on the hood of the van.

Ethan scrambles to lock the van’s electronic locks. He manages to hit the button as a second man tries the passenger handle. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, what do they want?

How is this even happening?

Ethan’s too stunned to think. To move. 

He should just drive away, to hell with his need for gas or logic or anything other than the building, crashing need to flee. Turning on the engine and hitting the gas pedal now would entail running over the man still banging on the hood, standing dead center. Blocking Ethan’s way.

His whole body surges with adrenaline, urges him to run. There’s nowhere to run. There’s a man at each of the exits. 

He should turn the key. Hit the pedal. He shouldn’t give a damn about mowing over the man threateningly beating on the hood of his van so hard it dips slightly with another dent.

Ethan can’t do it. He can’t run over another human being with his van.  
_  
Tap tap tap. _The barrel of a gun knocks gently against the window. The man’s grin is wide and yellowed. 

Ethan struggles out of his seat belt, scrambles out of the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the gun, the grin, the man.

Fuck fuck fuck—he should have just hit the gas. 

It’s too late now. 

Instead, Ethan crawls into the back of his van as if that will do him any good with an assailant at every door. 

Glass shatters. It’s not the deep splintering noise that came with the rock hitting his window earlier. It’s a melodic _tink__ tink tink_of hundreds of tiny shards spraying into the van’s cabin and the pavement below. Ethan swings a look over his shoulder to find his driver’s side window reduced to a sharp perimeter. The man reaches in through the empty space, unlocks the door.

As soon as the door swings open a grip clamps down around Ethan’s ankle, jerking him roughly. He scrambles to cling to the back seat, the front seats, anything—anything. But the man heaves his body back into the front of the van and out the door onto the pavement like Ethan is nothing more than a rag doll. He supposes he really is nothing more than a rag doll compared to these men.

“Please,” Ethan manages to say in the midst of heaving breath. It’s a plea, but he doesn’t know what he’s asking for. Doesn’t know what these men plan to do to him or why they’re doing it. How can he beg for mercy against something he can’t begin to comprehend?

“Please _what, _boy?” The man manages to make the question sound like a threat.

Ethan swallows, scrambles until he’s looking up at the man from his elbows. The gun barrel held lazily in his face stops him from trying to run. “Why—why are you doing this?”

The man laughs. “Cause we can.”

A sharp kick from behind from another one of this man’s gang members sends Ethan sprawling back down on the hot, crumbling asphalt. 

“Ain’t never needed a reason, have we Jed?” the third man laughs, addressing the first.

Jed. 

That’s the name of the man who pulled Ethan from the car. 

The man with the gun.

“You got that right, Ricky. We don’t need no reason.” Jed’s lip curls in wicked amusement. “But money’ll do.”

Ethan almost breathes a sigh of relief, or a laugh of confusion. All that comes out is a pathetic whine. Money. That’s all they want? Money? Money’s easy. Money’s nothing compared to the value of his life. Of course, he’ll give them his money. 

“Wallet’s in my back pocket,” Ethan croaks out, trying to shift his sore body to reach for it. Jed kicks him in the stomach to halt him, sending him curling against the pavement. Glass from the shattered window scrapes beneath his body, tiny shards sticking in his arms.

“No sudden movements, boy, or my trigger finger’ll get real twitchy,” Jed growls, delivering another careless kick to Ethan’s gut.

Tears spring hot in Ethan’s eyes from the pain, but he’s not crying. He doesn’t contain any emotion within him right now that’s capable of bringing real tears. No, all he can manage to feel is desperation, fear, the sickly pounding of his own pulse. He’s too confused for tears, mind scrambling too frantically for a way out of this. There’s no time to grieve his situation. Not now.

“Ricky, why don’t you be a doll and relieve this gentleman of his wallet?”

Ricky’s grin has too much delight in it, his leathery, sun-ruined skin stretching into a sweaty, predatory expression. He bends over Ethan, forces him to sit up with a fist in his shirt.

Ethan knows what’s coming before he feels the man’s hand slip into his jeans. The expression on the man’s face is enough.

Ricky fishes for the wallet in Ethan’s empty back jean’s pocket, his hand squeezing Ethan’s ass pointedly rough, trying to get a reaction.

Ethan flinches. Tries his best to stifle a grunt of alarm. He knew this was coming. He knew it. 

Ricky’s eyes twinkle with callous amusement as he switches pockets, finding Ethan’s wallet and tossing it behind him to Jed. To Ethan’s horror, he jams his hand down Ethan’s front pocket and retrieves his car keys.

Ethan’s first thought is that they’re going to steal his van, and that’s okay—that’s okay because a van is not worth anything, in the grand scheme of things. Certainly not as much as a human life. His life.

But Ricky doesn’t keep the keys. Instead, he chucks them as hard as he can out into the pale yellow of the dying cornfield.

Fear seizes Ethan’s gut. If they don’t want his van, then what _do they want?_  
_  
_They don’t want him getting away, at the very least.

What does that mean?

What does that mean?

Once the wallet and keys are gone, Ricky’s hand goes back to Ethan, groping him again. He’s bent so low over Ethan that he can smell the stink of the man’s breath as he laughs through his mouth, feel the damp heat coming off his body.

It takes every ounce of restraint Ethan has to resist turning away. He can’t make any sudden movements. Can’t give this man any excuse to harm him further. 

Ethan’s skin crawls under the man’s attention. Does this gruff biker even have a sexual interest in men—or is the sexual harassment just a convenient means to terrorize a victim? Either way, it’s completely fucked up and Ethan has a sudden, dangerous urge to struggle.

And he does, almost involuntary at first, like a spasm he can’t control.

Ricky responds with a violent grip on his body

Fueled with a rush of instinct, Ethan lunges forward and sinks his teeth in the first visible strip of sweaty flesh he can see—the man’s neck. The sound of his blunt teeth breaking skin fills his ears, it’s a soft, unsatisfying sound, like biting slowly into an apple. Ethan clamps his jaw so tight that when Ricky jerks away with alarm, Ethan is jerked along with him until he lets go, afraid his teeth won’t withstand the abuse.

A slight, coppery taste stains Ethan’s mouth, but it’s well worth seeing the angry red that blooms on Ricky’s neck, splotched with the beginnings of a purple bruise.

Ricky curses heavily, hand flying to cover the bite mark on his neck, expression snarled and murderous. But he’s stumbling away from Ethan as if he’s been burned.

Good.

Ricky’s companions laugh, which only fuels Ricky’s rage. Their mirth also serves to make Ethan feel small and insignificant. Like his feeble attempt at self-defense was merely akin to a mouse nipping a cat.

As if to prove his strength, Ricky fists Ethan’s hair and holds him steady for the punch that comes next.

Ethan’s jaw bursts with pain, and his vision sparks a frightening white before fading back to normal. He’s released to cower on the scorching pavement, his whole body hugging towards it like a lifeline. The ground isn’t going to save him. Closing his eyes and wishing it all away isn’t going to save him. And he sure as hell can’t save himself. Not from this many men. 

Ethan’s whole body gives up in the form of tense muscles, bracing for more beating. He succumbs to his fate—he just has to endure. Endure and pray that they leave him bloody but alive on the side of the road. Pray they don’t beat him to death. 

Some cruel words are exchanged. Shadows pass over him as he’s surrounded by the four men on all sides. Someone nudges him with the toe of their boot. The next thing that comes is a kick, and then several. Ethan shields his face with his arms, tries to ignore the scrape of his face on the pavement as his body is jostled with every blow. 

Muffled laughter tries to penetrate the cocoon of Ethan’s trembling body. The pain is sharp, and then aching, and almost fades just as another kick lands.

He’s not going to make it through this, is he?

He thinks of his family. His friends he left behind for the summer.

His roommate the first year of college.

He thinks these men aren’t going to let him live.

He’s seen their faces, after all. Seen their bikes. Seen too much.

Another barrage of kicks land and then something else.

The whirr of a motorcycle engine?

No. Louder than that, more gurgling, gas-powered roughness than even the loudest motorcycle can manage.

A chainsaw. It sounds like a chainsaw.

He’s going to die. Right here. On the side of the road. For what? For the pathetic contents of his wallet? For the amusement of these men?

Ethan’s eyes fly open, and he frantically searches for an opening, some sort of space between these men to heave his body through. To make a run for it.

The blows have stopped. The men are four tall dark-clad figures hovering over him, but their attention isn’t on him at all anymore, it’s on something else, something over one of their shoulders.

The growl of the sputtering noise grows louder, and Ethan instinctively scrambles away from it, past the legs of the men. Somehow, impossibly, they move away from him instead of stopping him. Behind him, there’s a gut-curdling scream. The engine noise muffles and strains. A warm spray of liquid hits the back of Ethan’s neck, slips down his shirt in thick drips aided by the sheen of sweat on his skin.

Horrified, confused, Ethan whips around and…

Red. He sees red.


	2. Chapter 2

Blood flies off the teeth of the revving chainsaw like liquid poured into fan blades. Droplets splash hot on Ethan’s face. His brain screams at him to slam his eyes shut, to shield them from the spray of blood, but he can’t move, can’t even blink.

One of the bikers.

One Ethan didn’t even learn the name of through the gang’s jeering.

His…

His body. The man's body looks like it’s pulling apart. Like string cheese meticulously peeled from the top. His shoulder is no longer connected. His collarbone must be halved. A chainsaw still whirrs while thrust through his abdomen. 

The chainsaw. It started at the shoulder, Ethan realizes. And it was forced down. It’s scrambling the man’s body now, chunks of flesh torn to shreds. Hanging. Flying through the air. Slopping wetly on the hot pavement.

Ethan’s brain struggles to make sense of what he’s seeing. Flashes of memory startle him: his mother beating a whisk through the slimy contents of an egg, the combined yellow of yolk and whites sizzling gently on the black surface of the frying pan.

Can he hear the shreds of sloppy flesh sizzling on the black of the scorching road now? Cooked by the heat of the blazing sun?

Ethan doesn’t know. It’s impossible. He must be imagining it.

What he definitely isn’t imagining is the hulking giant of a man standing behind the biker's ruined body. He wields the heavy chainsaw as if it weighs nothing. Where did he come from? Who is he?

Gravel pierces Ethan’s palms as he scrambles backwards on his hands and knees so hard he’s sure he gets the asphalt equivalent of rug burn.

The remaining three bikers are scattering, their attention no longer on Ethan at all. He seems to be the last thing on their minds. One of them, Jed, pulls a pistol from the holster on his hip. Ricky and the other biker don’t seem to have guns because they pull knives from their pockets instead.

Ethan almost laughs at the absurdity of his assailants trying to fight a chainsaw with three-inch blades.

A deafening _pop, pop, pop, _surrounds Ethan as Jed fires again and again at the giant man with the chainsaw. Ethan’s heart sinks immediately—whoever this giant is, he saved Ethan from a brutal beating. Still, his heart flies in terror at what he’s seeing, at the biker’s body going limp on the chainsaw’s blade, spilling blood and soft organ chunks at his feet

The biker’s body is no longer held up by his own consciousness, but by the man behind him.

It’s then Ethan realizes two things: one, the biker is surely dead—and two, none of the bullets Jed fired hit the giant man, he was shielded by the torn body hanging from his chainsaw.

Ethan hadn’t been counting the shots, but he knows from TV that only a handful of bullets fit inside guns that small. Jed keeps pulling the trigger long after the gun clicks to indicate its empty chamber.

Jed, Ricky, and their third accomplice start to back away, slowly, bracing for sudden movements. Their faces are cemented in terror, as though they have never witnessed violence as visceral as this. As if the only sort of violence they’ve ever seen comes in the form of beatings and bullet wounds and picking on the weak.

The giant man shakes the limp body of the biker free of his chainsaw. It falls to the ground with a thud.

Ethan should run. Scramble to his feet and run. But he’s frozen. And where would he run, anyway? He’s trapped between this hulking man who saved his life and the bikers that beat him into the pavement. Above all else, he has the pathetic urge to crawl underneath his van, squeeze into the tiny space and will all of this away. 

With the body out of the way, it becomes even more apparent just how imposing this giant man is. It’s not just his towering height—his bare, sweaty chest is visible beneath the straps of his denim overalls. His muscles in his chest and arms bulge and curve like a fit man just after a workout. His jaw is strong, expression stony and unreadable. 

It’s not the face of a man who just came to a stranger’s rescue.

No, it’s the face of someone who just brutalized another human being and doesn’t feel much about it.

Ethan’s breath catches in fear. The man’s eyes aren’t trained on the retreating bikers, they’re trained on Ethan still sprawled on the pavement.

Still, despite the man’s demeanor, Ethan feels grateful. He stopped the beating. Ethan wants to thank him. Can’t manage to open his mouth.

Nothing about this man is weak or hesitant. A monstrous strength boils beneath the calm surface. His heaving chest is the only part of him that gives any sign of life.

When Ethan’s lungs finally manage to regain function, he’s overcome with the overwhelming urge to beg for his life.

So he does.

“I—I—” he tries, voice trembling harder than it would have if he had attempted to plead with those bikers. He strains to shout over the noise of the chainsaw. “I’m not with them—those bikers, I—they just, I was just going to stop for gas and they started attacking me.”

The man’s unnerving, heated stare doesn’t falter. 

A fraction of a moment passes before Ethan realizes he said the wrong thing.

The man lunges forward, heaving the whirring chainsaw as if in preparation to bring it down right on Ethan’s face.

Ethan sucks in a terrified breath that is more sob and confusion than anything else. He shouldn’t have babbled about not being with the gang of bikers—that probably only made him sound suspicious.

What should he have done—what should he have done?

He should have done what he wanted to do in the first place.

Now is his last chance.

“Thank you!” he blurts, just as the chainsaw swings towards him. His frantic volume diminishes the sincerity that should accompany the gratitude. “For saving me!”

If those are the last words Ethan ever says before his skull is split by the chainsaw’s teeth… well. They aren’t the worst words.

Ethan closes his eyes, braces for the split second of pain he’s sure to feel before his death.

But nothing comes.

Somehow, he forces his eyes open again.

The chainsaw blade is hovering just inches from his face, so close that Ethan can feel the air created by its spin ghosting his face. The man is still staring at him.

Mechanically, Ethan raises his head, eyes bleary with tears, to look the man in the eye.

The man responds with a slow, almost innocently curious tilt of his head. 

Ethan doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know what to make of the chainsaw paused inches from his face.

He almost died. This man, this stranger who saved him, almost killed him, just now.

Fuck.

A commotion from the gas station snaps the man’s attention away from Ethan.

Without a word, the man steps around Ethan, chainsaw blade maneuvered precariously over Ethan as the man moves past. Ethan ducks down, lets the man trudge away from him with heavy steps.

For the first time since the bikers sped past him down the road, Ethan feels like he can breathe again. With no small amount of effort, Ethan manages to pull himself to his feet with the help of his open car door. There are so many tiny slivers of glass from the broken window embedded in his hands. Pain prickles through his palms, protesting the pressure on them as he heaves himself up.

Ethan tentatively sucks his throbbing bottom lip into his mouth. It’s swollen. His tongue laps at partially crusted blood. His own blood. Maybe some of that biker’s blood, too. The thought makes him splutter and gag.

Over at the gas station, the bikers are in a flurry of panic. There’s something wrong with their bikes—all four motorcycles are knocked over and brutalized, as Ethan had been knocked over and brutalized only moments before. Who tampered with their motorcycles?

Across the road, Jed tries futilely to right his damaged bike, but even when he manages to get it standing, it won’t start.

“What the _hell _did you people do?” Jed roars so loud that Ethan can hear it, even at a distance, even with his ears ringing.

That’s when Jed notices him—the man with the chainsaw barreling across the street towards him.

“Fuck!” Ricky yells.

“Fucking _run,” _Jed commands, already taking off down the road. 

There’s nowhere to run. It’s all desolate road for miles, both ways. 

The bikers must realize this, because they quickly veer off into the cornfield, hoping to lose the giant man’s pursuit amidst the tall crop.

The man crashes into the field right after them, chainsaw slicing right through the corn stalks. 

Ethan needs to get out of here. Now.

But his keys are lost somewhere in the field. The same field a towering stranger is currently in, hunting the bikers with a chainsaw.

Ethan’s only other option is the smartphone buried in the bottom of his luggage. He reaches through the broken window and unlocks all the doors. Then he hobbles around his van, holding onto the scorching hood for support as he makes his way to the side door and drags it open. Inside, he tosses several bags aside until he finds the one containing his phone. The zipper tears open, and he flings the neatly folded clothes all over the back seat until he finds the glossy black of his phone screen.

It seems like an eternity, holding his phone in shaky hands while he waits for it to power on. The upbeat tune the phone plays at its startup sends a shiver down his spine, with how normal and _wrong _it is, to hear something so cheerful while the shouts of the bikers still echo in the distance.

Blood smears across the sleek screen as he swipes the phone, opens the calling app, and dials the police. He can tell right away something is wrong. The call immediately drops. He pulls the phone away from his ear and scans the icons at the top of the screen.

No service.

No fucking service.

Of course.

Dropping the useless phone back in his bag, Ethan staggers back into the road. Whips around. The gas station. His only option is the gas station. Why hadn’t he thought of that first? They’re sure to have a landline.

Pain shoots through Ethan’s body as he forces himself to limp across the road, past the brutalized remains of the biker’s motorcycles. The windows on the storefront are so desperately in need of cleaning that Ethan can’t make out what’s inside through the thick dust and grime caked on both sides of the glass. Something about that is foreboding, but Ethan can’t fault the poor people of this declining area for not keeping up appearances. 

So he heaves open the door despite the prickle on the back of his neck warning him to turn back.

A bell above the door rattles, chiming angrily to alert his presence.

The interior of the gas station is just as desolate as the exterior. Scant products are scattered across the rows of shelves that contain more empty space than items for sale. A visible layer of dust coats the packaging of all the products in sight, plastic old and peeling away from paper. The checkered linoleum floor is dull and unswept, cracked and peeling up in geometric chunks.

If it wasn’t for the woman sitting behind the counter, holding a young child in her lap, Ethan would have assumed this place was abandoned and had been so for years, the glowing _OPEN _sign in the window simply left switched on and forgotten, like the rest of this property, this town. 

Ethan tries to calm his breath as he approaches the counter. The woman working the counter is old, mousy gray hair falling in clumped strands around her face, greasy and unwashed. Her sun-leathered skin is smudged with grime as if she has just gotten done doing hard labor on a farm. There’s a little girl sitting in her lap, probably about six years old, pale skin perfectly clean and hair brushed to perfection. They both stare at Ethan’s approach with vacant, bored expressions.

Ethan refuses to judge a book by its cover, but the woman creeps him out—and then a horrible thought strikes him: he just walked in through the unlocked front door. Despite the roar of a chainsaw and the shouts of the biker’s panic that must have been audible to this woman just minutes before. 

She hadn’t locked the door, holed herself in here to avoid the violence outside? Why? If the door doesn’t lock, why hadn’t she run, or hidden? Why is she just sitting at the counter like she’s completely oblivious to the chaos outside her shop?

“There’s,” Ethan starts against his better judgement, still trying to catch his breath. “There’s something happening outside. Something bad. Do you have a landline phone?”

“No phone,” the woman says, cold and unbothered.

Ethan physically recoils, taken aback by the woman’s tone, which gives Ethan the feeling she wouldn’t let him use the phone even if she did have one.

“I—uh,” he continues, faltering under the weight of this woman’s uninterested stare. “I was traveling through, needed to stop to buy some gas, but that biker gang jumped me—”

“What do you expect?” the woman asks, shifting the weight of the little girl in her arms. “Dangerous types like those all over these parts. Think they own the place, just because there ain’t no one around to teach them otherwise. The weaker families already moved away.”

Ethan opens his mouth, a syllable dying on his lips. Closes his mouth. What can he say to that? This lady acts like the kind of terror and violence he experienced outside her shop front is simply commonplace.

“Ain’t no law enforcement in the town no more. Not for miles,” the woman offers. She lights up a cigarette, smoke uncomfortably close to the little girl's face. “Town’s dead. Whole county’s a ghost. Gangs run through here all the time to pillage what’s left of the carcass. Shouldn’t be here if you can’t protect your own. That’s why the weak ones left.”

For the second time since he entered the gas station, Ethan feels slapped. It’s like this woman—and apparently, the whole area—lives in their own little world completely detached from the reality Ethan’s used to. He didn’t think forgotten and dangerous places like this existed outside of cinema.

“A man saved me. With a chainsaw,” Ethan tries, for lack of anything better to say. He’s fumbling at this point. “He saved me. But I think he’s dangerous.”

He’s not even sure why he’s telling this woman this, after she has shown no concern for his bloodied, bruised state, or his obvious distress.

But he can’t let her put herself and the child in her arms in danger. He takes a deep breath and adds, “I think you should leave. Go somewhere safe.”

At this, the woman shows the first sign of emotion she’s shown during the entire conversation. She laughs, hearty and long, with her head thrown back.

“Little boy,” she says, amused, “The man who you saw was my son. He protects this place, along with his sisters. He ain’t a danger to me or his baby cousin.”

Ethan can barely believe what he’s hearing. Stunned, he replies, “Your son slaughtered a man. Tore him to ribbons.”

The woman grins, showing two rows of yellowed, chipped teeth. “Guess he's good for something after all. My Tommy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly except those who come prowling where they ain’t belong. Made sure of that. Raised him right.”

No. No—that’s not true. That’s not true, because this _Tommy_ clearly saw the bikers beating the hell out of Ethan, and yet, when the bikers took off running, Tommy _still_ tried to train his chainsaw’s teeth on Ethan.

“Ain’t that right, sweetie?” the woman asks the child. “Uncle Tommy’s just doing as he's told, huh?”

The child in the woman’s arms giggles and nods enthusiastically.

There’s… something wrong. Something wrong with these people. Something wrong with this entire day. Something wrong with Ethan for thinking this road trip was a good idea—an appetizing idea, even. He should have never done something like this alone.

Slowly, Ethan backs away from the counter, the woman, the child’s melodic giggle.

And he runs. He runs straight out the door of the gas station without looking back.

His heart is pounding, his head swimming with a suffocating uncertainty. 

Is he overreacting right now? Should he have just stayed with the woman, asked her for help?

Shit. He surely just insulted her by running—but Ethan can’t fight the overwhelming dread chasing his heels right now.

He can’t second guess himself. He needs to find his keys in that field and then get the hell out of here, turn back the way he came. It doesn’t matter if his van runs out of gas. He’ll walk until he gets a signal on his phone.

The scent of blood hits him newly as he veers past his van, the dead biker stinking of raw meat in a way Ethan had never known a human body would stink. But he supposes it makes sense that human meat would smell no different than freshly butchered animal meat, bloody and packaged for consumption. He holds his breath. Doesn’t look at the biker’s ruined corpse. Keeps walking.

There’s distant shouting from the cornfield, but Ethan steels himself and crashes into the rows of crop. Desperately, he pushes the stalks to the side, eyes locked on the ground for the telltale glint of his ring of keys. 

The dirt the stalks of corn rise from is cracked and dry, neglected in every way. Fine dirt kicks up and quickly coats Ethan’s sneakers—no wonder the woman in the shop looked so dirty. It’s like this place is crumbling, slowly turning to dust, dissolving everything along with it.

It’s going to grind him to dust, too. It already is, isn’t it?

Ha. Ethan laughs to himself, pulls a hand through his sweaty curls. He can practically feel his sanity draining.

His search takes him further and further into the corn—how far did the biker throw his keys? The man had chucked them pretty far. They could be anywhere. The crop is planted so close together that he can hardly see anything but the thin row of dirt ahead of him and to one side at a time.

He’s never going to find his keys. Maybe he should go back to his van, grab his phone and what water he has. Take off on foot into the corn, away from the shouting, the distant roar of the chainsaw. 

He can’t believe that guy—Tommy—is still chasing the biker gang down. Hasn’t the man done enough? Those bikers were terrified, practically pissing themselves as they took off into the corn. It’s not protecting his land and family at this point. It’s not self-defense—it never was. Perhaps the first kill was, because the man _did _save Ethan from being beaten to death on the side of the road but...

First kill. Why is Ethan thinking this way? He can’t be sure Tommy will kill another one. Yet, everything in his instincts tells him Tommy _is_ going to kill the bikers, every last one of them.

And. Yeah, the man did save Ethan, but he’s almost certain that was just an accidental consequence of a desire to slaughter the gang of bikers. The man tried to attack Ethan too, but, he stopped… that means something, doesn’t it? 

Fuck. He needs to stop thinking. Needs to find his keys. Or turn back, grab his phone and start walking. Fuck. He doesn’t know. He needs to make a decision, needs to think, can’t think. Can’t think about anything but that hulking man and the flecks of blood flying off his chainsaw.

Just when Ethan’s about to cry out in frustration, thick fingers grab his elbow and jerk him to a halt. He whips his head to the side so fast his neck protests. 

A woman. A woman so large she has to be related to the giant man from before.

Where had she come from?

She looks to be in her thirties, thick and muscular beneath her tattered clothes, which are splattered with fresh blood. Her straw-colored hair hangs around her face as the old woman’s did, wild and reaching all the way down to her waist.

A manic look adorns her face, her grin matching the old woman’s from the gas station. If it weren't for her terrifying expression, Ethan would find her oddly beautiful. Absurdly, Ethan registers that she looks an awful lot like the little girl in the old woman’s lap. Is this the girl’s mother?

“Well ain’t you a cute one,” she says, sucking her lip between her teeth and eying Ethan with a hungry look. “You wasn’t with them bikers, were you?”

Ethan cringes and tries to tug free from her grip, but her fingers tighten, long nails digging into his flesh. He needs to force a reply, but nothing comes. He should have run. Should have grabbed as many supplies from his van as possible and run as far away from here as he could.

“Too bad for you, got caught up in the gang’s mess,” the woman continues, unperturbed by the stark panic on Ethan’s face. “Bet you just wanted to pass through and fill up the old tank, eh? Poor thing. Too late for that now.”

Too late for that now?  
_  
Too late for that now?_  
_  
_What does that mean?

In the distance, another woman’s voice rings out, shrill and commanding. “Sally! Tommy! Get your asses over here! Keep em alive! Line ‘em up!”

The woman holding him must be Sally, then, because she turns to Ethan and grins even wider. 

“That’s good news for you,” she tells him. “Guess you get to keep breathing for now.”

Panic renewed, Ethan looks down at the woman’s free hand—she’s holding an axe, the blade wet with blood.

Holy shit.

Holy fucking _shit__._  
__  
What is wrong with these people?

When the woman switches her grip to the back of Ethan’s neck and nudges his lower back with the axe, Ethan has no choice but to obey her.

“Move,” she growls, and Ethan starts walking.


	3. Chapter 3

Sally leads Ethan through the corn until they’re back in the road. As soon as they break through the edge of the cornfield, Ethan’s blood turns to ice.

There, in the middle of the road, the remaining three bikers are lined up, bloodied but alive, hands bound behind their backs, kneeling and begging for their lives.

Tommy stands towering behind them, chainsaw silent but dripping at his side. A second woman, shorter than Sally but just as muscular, backhands one of the bikers and yells at them to be quiet.

Desperately, Ethan makes eye contact with Tommy across the road. The large man is staring him down, jaw locked and impassive as ever. He looks as frighteningly strong as he did earlier, and absurdly, Ethan thinks that the name _Tommy_ is horribly unfitting and juvenile for a man of his incredible stature.

“Please,” Ethan says, quiet enough for only Sally to hear. “Please, I’m not with the bikers. You know that. Please.” 

He’s not even entirely sure what he’s asking—perhaps to be let free, or to not be added to the lineup, or for Sally not to shove him over to the other woman.

The second woman catches him as he stumbles, letting out a rumbling laugh as she makes quick work of shoving him down to his knees right alongside the bikers. Ethan’s kneecaps burst with pain but he shuffles into line with the others with some violent prodding from the woman.

“Gotta be gentler on that one, Beth, he’ll break quicker than the others,” Sally tells the other woman.

“If he breaks, he breaks,” Beth spits, and then, moving in front of the line of bound men, she says, “This here’s my sister Sally and my brother Tommy. The woman you’re scaring to death inside the fuel station is our Ma. And she’s got Sally’s little girl with her, too.”

“And this is _our _property you’re creating a ruckus on,” Sally adds.

One of the bikers spits on the road and then growls, “This is a public road. Ain’t yours, and don’t open a fucking gas station if you don’t want customers.”

“You ain’t no customer of ours,” Beth sneers, fisting her hand in the man’s long hair and pulling his head back. “We know your kind, causing trouble where trouble don’t belong. You’re not welcome here.”

“Then let us leave, we’ll be on our way,” Jed says calmly, with whatever remains of the authority he has as the gang’s leader.

“Too late for that,” Beth says, vicious with amusement. She’s clearly deriving pleasure from exerting superiority over these men.

Ethan can’t help but feel that’s somehow less awful than what the bikers did to him—the bikers were exerting superiority over someone weaker than him. But this family is picking on the bullies.

“I’m—I’m not with them,” Ethan blurts, instantly regretting it when Beth’s attention snaps to him. “I was just passing through when they attacked me.”

“Too bad for you,” Beth dismisses coldly. “Should’ve kept driving.”

Another chill prickles through Ethan’s veins. On some level, this family knows what they’re doing to the bikers surpasses self-defense, don’t they? They know it goes beyond just protecting their property, right? They must know it’s sick and twisted. They must know no law enforcement will agree that splitting a man in half with a chainsaw is remotely legal.

They don’t want a witness to whatever twisted code of ethics they live by out here, free from the eye of the law.

And Ethan is a witness.

They’re going to kill him.

They’re going to kill him and there’s nothing he can do to save himself now.

Beth sticks her fingers in her mouth and unleashes an ear-splittingly loud whistle. 

A bell chimes in the distance, and the old woman and the child make their way over to the road.

No.

No—a child should not be witness to any of this.

Why are they bringing the child?

And.

The welfare of the little girl is probably the last thing Ethan should be concerned about right now, because she’s unscathed and in no physical danger, and he’s… well, he’s about to die. Probably.

Still, Ethan can’t keep his mouth shut.

“Please,” he says, swallowing his fear when Beth shoots him a silencing look. “Don’t let the little girl watch whatever you’re going to do to us. Please.”

Beth stares.

And then laughs so forcefully that she doubles over.

“Seriously?” Beth asks, as if she’s questioning Ethan’s intelligence. 

Sally snorts, opening her arms for the little girl, who runs to her side. “Daisy don’t need no protecting from no outsider. My little girl can handle her own, can’t you darlin’?”

Daisy nods enthusiastically.

The girl’s glowing expression, vibrating with pride under her mother’s attention, takes Ethan aback so much that whatever protest he has left dies on his lips.

Something is wrong here.

Very wrong.

This isn’t normal. 

What fresh hell did he stumble into?

“Alright honey, which one do you want?” the older woman from the gas station asks. “I reckon we have room for three. Should last us a good while.”

What?  
_  
What?_  
_  
_Room for three of them _where?_  
_  
Why?_  
_  
_Ethan’s skull buzzes with pain—confusion vibrating more painfully than any of his scrapes and bruises.

Almost shyly, Daisy extends her tiny arm and chubby fist out towards Jed, pointing at him.

“That’s my girl,” Sally beams. “Knows how to pick ‘em.”

Daisy giggles.

“This one got all the fight knocked out of him,” Beth muses, shoving Ricky on the back of the head, forcing him to bow lower on his knees. “I say we keep him too.”

Keep him.

What does that mean?

Ethan’s pretty sure that if he’s not chosen right now, he’ll be killed instead.

Even if they plan to kill the bikers they’re choosing later, living another day is better than being slaughtered out here like roadkill.

Part of Ethan wishes these bikers would speak up, would fight back, so that Ethan can have another chance to escape amongst the chaos. He could have run. He missed every chance he had. It’s too late now. The only thing keeping him rooted is the fact that he's outnumbered now.

“Yeah, take that one for sure,” the old woman says, nodding at Ricky.

Ethan is shocked that a cruel man like Ricky is submitting to these people. What kind of hell did he go through in the cornfield? What scared him so much that he’s keeping his mouth shut now? Even their apparent leader, Jed, isn’t attempting to barter. 

The third remaining biker has been quiet this whole time. Ethan doesn’t know his name. He’s bleeding pretty badly from his shoulder. Ethan’s on his knees right next to the wounded man, and a lingering glance at him reveals gnarled flesh scrambled in a coagulating gash. He must have been grazed with the chainsaw. That’s the only explanation for the way his skin is a sloppy, barely connected mess around the wound.

“I guess this one will do for our third,” Beth says, kicking the third, quiet biker. “He’s worse for wear, but the last one’s too scrawny.”

Too scrawny?

Why does that matter?

Are they planning to put them to work or something?

It doesn’t matter—if he’s not chosen they’re going to kill him, right here and now. He’s sure of that.

Desperately, Ethan’s eyes lock on the giant man from before—the old woman said his name was Tommy.

Tom.

He spared Ethan before. 

Maybe…

Sweat and tears sting in Ethan’s eyes as he stares the man down, pleading.

Tom’s gaze is already fixed on Ethan. Ethan’s not sure the man has stopped looking at him since he was ushered out of the field by Sally.

There’s a tragic lack of expression on his stony face. His eyes just as dark as his short, inky hair. 

This man isn’t going to save him.

Whatever happened before, Ethan mistook it for mercy.

It wasn’t.

Ethan’s not sure this man knows what mercy is.

“Might as well be him,” the old woman agrees, impassive, indicating the third biker. She's on her second or third cigarette. Ethan doesn't want his last lungful of air to be filled with the scent of blood and tobacco.

It’s then Tom moves. He steps forward, strong gait heading directly towards Ethan. 

This is it.

They’ve chosen the three bikers. They get to live another day—as to why, Ethan has no idea. Maybe their fate will be worse than his, in the long run.

Tom steps directly in front of Ethan. The proximity only serves to show Ethan just how small he is compared to the man, who towers over him in his scuffed denim overalls. No shirt beneath. Just hard muscle.

Ethan is outnumbered. He should try to run anyway. Try to live.

Why? To go back to college like he’s supposed to? To continue on with his dead-end, rat race life? Because really, that’s all anyone’s life is. Work. A few hours at home. Sleep. Work again.

He doesn’t want that. He’s been dreading that hell for as long as he can remember. His parents always thought it was morbid for a child not to have dreams. For a child to know their future would be doomed to monotony. 

Ethan sighs. Wants to close his eyes. Can’t manage to take them off of the hard expression of the man looming above him.

Tom grabs a fist full of Ethan’s shirt collar. Drags him forward until he’s on all fours on the pavement. Keeps dragging, as Ethan’s forced to flail along, legs skidding across the road. 

Tom stops when Ethan is pulled away from the line.

Separated.

Separated to be killed, right here, right now.

Tom keeps a fistful of the back of Ethan’s shirt, choking him slightly as he holds Ethan in place at his feet.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die and this man is going to kill him.

“This one,” comes a deep, gruff command. 

Tom?

Ethan looks up. For the first time, Tom isn’t looking at him. He’s shrugging towards the third biker, the one Ethan doesn’t know the name of.

“Not that one,” Tom says. “This one.”

Suddenly, the grip on Ethan’s shirt doesn’t feel like the prelude to violence—instead, it feels… possessive.

Is… is Ethan understanding this correctly?

Is Tom _choosing _him?

Choosing for him not to be the one who dies right now?

Beth laughs harshly. “You ain’t never chose a meal before.”

The way she says it is so suspicious that it demands explanation.

Ethan’s brain short wires.

A meal?

Is she…

Is she implying that they intend to _eat_ the three people they keep alive?

The old woman’s words just minutes ago ring in Ethan’s head:_ I reckon we have room for three. Should last us a good while._  
__  
They’re going to keep three live humans to butcher.

No. Ethan must be hearing wrong.

Assuming wrong.

Jumping to conclusions.

But Tom drags Ethan to his feet, fist still knotted in Ethan’s shirt to keep him from running. His free hand tugs Ethan’s shirt up, exposing his belly.

Ethan’s face, previously drained of color, glows bright red under the multiple sets of eyes on him now.

Sally and Beth are positively leering.

“The soft ones are better,” Tom grunts in explanation. He drops Ethan’s shirt. 

Despite his stomach no longer being exposed, Ethan’s face still burns with embarrassment. His belly isn't more than slightly pudgy, really. It's just not muscular. 

This is the second time he’s felt utterly dehumanized today. 

The old woman is frowning deeply, practically glaring at Tom with suspicion. She looks about to protest, but Beth cuts in.

“Less gristle with the soft ones, huh?” Beth jeers. “Alright. You take him back to the house, Tommy. His van too. Park it in the barn so we can scrap it later. Sally and I will take care of this lot.”

With that, Beth delivers a powerful kick to Jed’s side.

“Alright, Daisy Mae,” the older woman says. She pulls a knife with a worn wooden handle out of a holster around her waist. It's then Ethan realizes she has a gun strapped to her hip, too. “Get rid of the excess.”

The little girl takes the knife just as Beth grabs the nameless biker and holds him still.

The biker struggles, but is no match for the strength of this woman.

Jed and Ricky’s cursing and protests are short-lived—Sally makes use of their bandanas by shoving them in their mouths. 

Ethan’s body flinches instinctively, muscles spasming with the impulse to flee—to be anywhere but here, watching what this little girl is about to do.

Daisy steps right in front of the struggling man, careful to stay out of reach of his legs, where he’s bucking and kicking wildly in a futile attempt to struggle free.

But he’s not going anywhere, and Daisy sinks the blade into his neck, seeming to carefully choose where to position the point. 

The blade resists at first, but then it pops through the man’s skin. The silver metal sinks in and back out, coated in red.

Blood pours from the wound.

It’s not a clean death. Not a quick death.

Ethan loses the contents of his lunch on the road, his stomach emptying in painful, acidic contractions.

As soon as his stomach stops wringing itself out and his breathing evens, Tom ushers him back towards his van. Ethan obliges on wobbly legs, head reeling with a feeble attempt to manage his pain and panic. Somewhere, distantly, he’s grateful to be forced away from the awful scene. The second death he’s seen today.

The chainsaw is haphazardly fastened to Tom’s utility belt, looking dangerous even when hanging docile on the man’s hip. When they reach Ethan’s van, Tom releases his grip on Ethan, who stumbles without the extra support.

“Keys,” Tom grunts. 

They’re as good as alone now. The rest of the man’s dangerous family is gathered out of earshot, congregating by the gas station. 

“Uh,” Ethan breathes, because his survival instinct screams at him to respond, to do as he’s told—but his brain is too overloaded with fear and adrenaline to form a proper reply.

“Now,” Tom commands, firm but uninterested. Like this is all just an average day of work for him. Maybe it is.

Ethan can’t help but notice that Tom’s hands are folded over his chest. Kept to themselves. Like he has no intentions of fishing into Ethan’s pockets for the keys, as the bikers did.

That thought calms Ethan enough for him to manage a deep breath.

Carefully, he replies, “They—one of the men. The bikers. They threw my keys into the cornfield.”

“Show me,” Tom commands again, stoic and looming. 

It takes Ethan a moment to realize Tom intends Ethan to lead him to where he approximates the keys must have landed. Carefully, Ethan makes his way down the slight slope on the side of the road, into the cornfield. He’s careful to move slowly, to not give any sign that he might run. He knows running will only get him killed.

His only hope now is that the mercy Tom has been showing isn’t just a figment of his desperate imagination.


	4. Chapter 4

The cornfield is just as suffocating as being submerged in a ball-pit as a child. The stalks rise high over their heads even though Tom must be well over six feet tall. Ethan’s heart pounds at how _alone _he is with this mammoth of a man.

It’s not exactly fear.

Mostly, it’s a heady rush of need—a desire to communicate with this person, a desire to endear Tom to him. Because so far, this man’s whim is the only thing keeping him alive. Ethan doesn’t know why. Hell, he’s not even sure if it’s not entirely in his head.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says as they search for the keys. Though he’s leading, he can feel the man’s proximity at his back. “It’s hard to see anything in here.”

No reply from Tom.

Ethan’s calmer now that it’s just this beast of a man with him. He shouldn’t feel protected, but he does. The way Tom dragged him from the line-up reads as absurdly possessive to Ethan right now. And after all that happened today, Ethan _needs _someone to care whether he lives or dies—even if it is just out of pity.

Maybe he has a concussion. Or it’s just trauma of his many near-death experiences today talking. But, somehow, Ethan feels something like _safety_ right now.

It’s disgusting and ridiculous, but Ethan doesn’t have time to beat himself up for it.

He needs to find these keys.

He needs to say something. Make this man like him. Make this man want to keep him alive—just until he has time to escape. 

“Those bikers were really awful,” Ethan says, pushing past another row of corn stalks. It’s easy like this, talking to the crop brushing against his face, not having to look at the strikingly imposing man in tow. “I haven’t been beat up like that since middle school.”

Again, Tom says nothing.

Ethan continues anyway. “I thought I was going to die.” 

Ethan’s always been prone to stark honestly with others. An openness that sometimes borders on oversharing. He’s not exactly trying to manipulate this man, though he knows he should be. More than anything, every cell in Ethan’s body longs to bear his humanity to this person. Show Tom that he’s a human being, a living thing. Something that shouldn’t be disposed of thoughtlessly.

“I was on a road trip by myself, to try and see if there was more to life than a monotonous future.” Ethan’s blabbering now. His words probably come across as desperate. “Everyone I knew warned me that it was a bad idea to travel alone like that. Ha. I guess they were right.”

Ethan actually laughs here, and it’s not entirely humorless. 

He thinks maybe he hears a grunt from behind him.

“Like, I’m pretty sure everyone I know suspects I’m gay, and they coddle me because of it—so I really thought that their worry came from that direction, but I’m pretty sure those bikers only targeted me because they could.”

Wow. Ethan… takes a moment to realize what just came out of his mouth.

He’s never talked about his sexuality with _anyone_. It’s always been awkward, his obvious disinterest in women. At some point friends and family catch on that he’s never really talked about romantic or sexual interest in women—and then they don’t want to make any accusations. Or maybe they just don’t want it to be true. So they avoid the subject, and Ethan avoids it too, because the whole thing is awkward and he’s not honestly sure about anything himself—it’s not like he’s ever had anything close to a boyfriend.

And. Ethan should really, _really, _not be mentioning his potential sexuality to a potentially very conservative, murderous hillbilly.

“You and your sisters are really strong,” Ethan tries again, with a different subject, because his face is blazing red again, and not because of the heat. “All three of you are kind of beautiful in that powerful sort of way, where—”

Ethan snaps his mouth closed.

Okay. Yeah. Fuck.

He definitely must have a concussion because his current train of thought goes well beyond trying to manipulate this man into liking him.

Because—because, who the hell would take one look at a giant, masculine guy like Tom and think he’d like to be called _beautiful?_  
_  
_And. Fuck, Ethan has been thinking that this entire time, hasn’t he? That this man is strangely beautiful—sloping muscles statuesque, something meant to be chiseled into expensive marble. 

He’s been staring, and gaping, and obsessing over this man.

He’s sick to his stomach, suddenly, with how disgusting that is. Not because he’s another man—no, not at all—but because Tom _murdered _someone right in front of him. Almost murdered Ethan, too. Might, still.

Ethan curses himself for his bizarre reaction. He can’t explain it to himself. Can’t afford to dissect his own psyche right now. It must be some sort of terrifying survival instinct buried deep within him: if he can’t protect himself, he should find the biggest thing willing to protect him and cling to it.

It makes sense in some primitive, animalistic way that actually doesn’t make sense at all.

Because this man is dangerous.

And Ethan should just try to run now, even if he knows he’s not fit to after the beating—because running, even futilely, is more logical than trying to make _friends_ with the beast tailing him.

“There,” Tom says, halting Ethan’s steps.

Tom shoves several stalks of corn aside, holding them back like a curtain. Ethan’s keys lay on the ground below them.

“Get them,” Tom commands, because everything he says to Ethan is a command.

Ethan obeys, bending to pick the keys up—but a shock of pain in his lower back sends him reeling, crying out and landing on all fours.

Pain. Not from Tom hurting him, but from the biker’s earlier abuse.

Fearful that the display will upset Tom, Ethan grabs the keys and scrambles back into a sitting position.

“Sorry, I’m sorry—got kicked in the back pretty good earlier,” he blurts in quick, breathy explanation.

He flashes his eyes up to Tom, who is looming, chin pointed down to stare at Ethan’s sprawling form. 

Tom’s eyes are intense, dark, even though Ethan can see they’re the most devastatingly handsome shade of blue. Something about the way he’s looking at Ethan makes Ethan very aware of the way his own legs are spread, the way his chest is heaving in the aftermath of the sudden pain.

And for one horrifying moment, Ethan thinks he’s insane, that this is really all in his head and his brain is looking for _sex_ and _attraction_ where there is none. That, perhaps his instincts were short-circuited by Ricky’s disgusting fondling earlier, maybe that whole situation fucked him up, made his body think hey, at least assault is better than death.

It’s awful and absurd and Ethan is both reassured and horrified to see the distinct tent in the crotch of Tom’s denim overalls.

Because.

Because—that means Ethan isn’t crazy for interpreting Tom’s motives and stares as _possessive__. _  
_  
_But. It also means that…

That…

This man is _aroused_ despite the disturbing nature of every single fucking thing that’s happening. Despite the fact that Ethan is _not _here willingly, is being held _captive, _in fact.

Worse than that, Ethan’s own dick twinges in interest. His body is betraying him—his _brain _is betraying him, because honestly? Seducing this man doesn’t seem like a bad idea right now. In fact, it seems like a very good idea.

It feels like self-preservation when Ethan gives in and bites his lip, flashing his gaze from the bulge in Tom’s pants to his face.

He wants to say something coy. Proposition Tom. Crawl over to the man and give him a fumbling blowjob, the first blowjob he's ever given—to thank him for keeping Ethan alive so far—because honestly, Ethan is thankful. And in some sick way, he’s convinced that’s exactly what Tom’s doing—keeping him alive.

And that desire goes so far beyond self-preservation. Beyond manipulation to save his own skin. His own lust is a very real pooling of heat between his legs.

He’s never so much as kissed another person, let alone sucked someone off.

But all he wants right now is this man’s dick in his mouth.

He can’t stop staring at the long, cylindrical bulge straining the man’s pants.

He wants—he must actually be out of his mind, from the beating or trauma or searing heat, because, he wants—

The fantasy swelling in Ethan’s head festers and pops when Tom grabs him by the arm and drags him to his feet. 

“Back, now,” Tom grunts, shoving Ethan lightly back the way they came, back towards the road.

Ethan’s sick with the dizzying mixture of lust and disgust for himself, shame bleeding into it all when he realizes that Tom has no intention of taking advantage of him out here in the cornfield. 

Tom could have done it whether Ethan consented or not. He’s so much more powerful than Ethan. And who is Ethan, if not a dead man, anyway? What would it matter to Tom, if he took advantage of Ethan first?

But Tom didn’t, despite his obvious arousal tenting his pants.

And Ethan is ashamed—ashamed that he fantasized, even for the briefest of moments, about going along with Tom having his way with him.

Ashamed that his body swam with lust at the thought of it.

Ashamed that it didn’t disgust him, like Ricky groping him through his pockets did.

What is wrong with him?

When they get back to Ethan’s van, Tom simply takes the keys from Ethan, calloused fingers brushing his as they ease the keys out of his grip. The touch sends a pleasant prickle down Ethan’s spine. He’s awe-struck by the simple touch, how gentle and commanding it is all at once. Lust and shame crash through him, pooling, overflowing, drowning him.

Tom opens the passenger side door and holds it ajar expectantly until Ethan gets the picture and crawls inside. The door slams shut and before Ethan knows it, Tom is swiping glass from the broken window off of the driver’s seat and climbing in. He unclips the chainsaw from his hip and tosses it into the back of the van.

Ethan… doesn’t feel like a prisoner at all. He’s completely unrestrained. On some level, he knows that’s because this man overpowers him in every way—he doesn’t _need _to restrain Ethan to keep him captive.

But.

For a moment, as Tom starts the van and the view from the window starts to slide forward, Ethan imagines that Tom is simply helping him after the horrible encounter with the bikers. He imagines Tom is driving him back to his farmhouse to clean him up because there aren’t any hospitals around and Ethan is too shaken to drive himself.

Ethan shuts his eyes, focuses on the vibration of the wheels on the road, and imagines he’s being taken care of right now. Helped.

And.

Maybe that is true—maybe Tom is helping him in the only way he knows how.

He certainly doesn’t seem to be the ringleader in his family. That position seems to belong exclusively to his sister Beth.

How long has this family been out here totally isolated from society? Just from the brief glimpse of interaction Ethan got to witness in that line-up, the family seems totally cult-like, sheltered from anything outside of their violent world-view.

How is it possible that they’re living like this?

How long has Tom been killing for his family?

What made them decide that this is the right way to live?

Ethan opens his eyes, glances at Tom.

Ethan’s always felt a little small in his van, but Tom has to lean forward slightly to avoid his head hitting the ceiling.

Sweat beads and drips down the trunk of Tom’s neck. Ethan has to look away, because something like that shouldn’t be arousing—not when the man is coated in flecks of drying blood from the spray of his chainsaw. Grime covering his clothes from who-knows-what. Still, Ethan can’t help but imagine pressing his tongue to the man’s shoulder, licking a wet stripe up to find Tom’s pulse in his throat.

Tom catches Ethan staring. For once his face is not aggressively blank—his lip lifts slightly in a snarl, a frown of disgust.

Alarmed, Ethan looks away again, out the window at the unsown fields. Is all of Ethan’s attention trying this man’s patience?

Tom rolls his shoulders, like trying to smooth out crawling skin.

“My name is Ethan.” The words come suddenly, unexpectedly out of his own mouth. Blurted like this is the last chance he’ll ever get to say them. He needs this man to understand that if he hurts Ethan, he’ll be hurting a real human being, not just another nameless stranger.

Tom ignores the offering of Ethan’s name outright. Gives no attempt to return the introduction. 

Ethan’s fingers tremble in his lap, shaking and filthy. Worse than that is his cock, half-hard in his jeans. He shifts subtly to hide his inappropriate erection, trying his best to avoid looking suspicious. He’s not sure what would be worse, Tom noticing his boner or Tom mistaking his shifting as a prelude to an escape attempt.

Could Ethan escape? The van isn’t moving so fast that he couldn’t open the door and jump out, make a run for it. Sure, it would hurt like hell and there’s really nowhere to run, but it’s possible.

And what about what his instincts are telling him to do? To stay put and seduce Tom until he wants Ethan’s safety more than Ethan does? Something tells Ethan that plan isn’t going to work. He’s never even had a man hit on him before, what makes him think this guy is going to like him enough to want to keep him safe?

That will never happen. All that will happen is that Ethan will be held captive as planned, slaughtered to feed this possibly cannibalistic hillbilly family. Tom’s not going to grow fond of him in the span of time between now and the dinner plate. Tom’s not going to save him. And if Tom is attracted to him, Ethan will be lucky if he isn’t raped before he’s murdered.

Ethan should just jump out of the van now. The door is unlocked—Ethan isn’t sure Tom knows _how _to use the door’s automatic locks, otherwise he would have. If Ethan breaks bones hitting the road at forty miles per hour, if Tom stops the van to kill him, then—well, at least it will be a quick death.

Instead of jumping, instead of running, Ethan says, voice small, “Tom, I don’t want to die.”

That seems to have the same effect as if Ethan actually did jump out of the van.

Tom slams on the brakes, causing Ethan to lurch forward hard into the dashboard, his already sore body slamming into it. 

The van’s switched into park and the next thing Ethan knows he’s being dragged half into Tom’s lap, his arms forced behind his back. Ethan only struggles initially, a knee-jerk reaction to the surprise. His brain manages to take over, to force his body limp because somewhere, distantly, he knows struggling will only make things worse for himself.

Ethan’s breath is shallow as he pants against Tom’s denim-clad thighs, thick like strongly rooted tree trunks. Something tight is coiling around his wrists—rope, he realizes, binding his arms behind his back. 

What was it?

What was it that set Tom off?

The subtle plea for his life?

The use of his name?

Maybe the use of his name startled him.

Could have been either.

Tom didn’t seem to mind Ethan’s _pretend everything’s normal_ babbling in the cornfield.

Ethan’s heart sinks and also speeds tremendously, because he’s still sprawled face-first into Tom’s lap. 

Tom, however, seems not to notice this fact and drags Ethan back upright. He pulls something from his hip and for a moment Ethan expects a weapon, a blade—something sharp and dangerous. But no. It’s a handkerchief.

A handkerchief that must have been hanging from Tom’s utility belt. 

A handkerchief that is red like the blood splattered and crusting on it. 

It must have gotten sprayed heavily when Tom drove the chainsaw into the biker.

Tom grabs Ethan by his jaw, thick fingers warm and pressing, forcing Ethan’s mouth open.

No.

No—

Ethan realizes what Tom’s going to do before the man tries to shove the bloody handkerchief in his mouth to gag him.

Ethan flinches backwards involuntarily. The thought of having that thing in his mouth—no, Ethan can’t do it. He attempts to squirm away in weak protest, face contorted in illogical fear. He doesn’t know why this makes him feel so squeamish after everything he’s seen today, after knowing what Tom’s capable of if Ethan doesn’t comply. 

Ethan’s whine seems to give Tom pause. The dirty cloth stops inches from Ethan’s open mouth.

Tom relinquishes his grip on Ethan’s jaw as if burned. 

Snarling, Tom says, “No more words,” and shoves Ethan pointedly away from him. 

Ethan slams back into the passenger seat, cowering, bordering on hyperventilation. He squishes his body as close to the interior of the door as he can, as far away from Tom as he can. His eyes sting with tears, not from the pain but from the fear, betrayal, and hopelessness Ethan set himself up for by ever believing this man could be on his side.

Even though Tom showed him yet another kindness by foregoing shoving the bloody handkerchief in his mouth, Ethan wishes he had allowed it to happen. What he got instead—the growling command and the hard shove—is a far worse punishment.

Because.

Because…

Ethan feels like he failed a test. Failed the only chance he had at getting out of this.

He’s not a fighter. He can’t outrun these people. The only useful tool in his toolbox was his ability to connect with other human beings. And he couldn’t even do that.

Maybe it wasn’t possible in the first place.


	5. Chapter 5

The farmhouse is just a speck in the distance when Tom turns off the road onto a long, dirt driveway. As they approach, the once-lavish two story home becomes clearer. The structure is all chipping wood, worn by time and use. The house is as tired and dusty as the gas station had been, as the stretches of land have been for miles.

Several animal pens sit on the property, a barn attached to them. The pinkish-white hide of shedding goats can be seen grazing behind their fence alongside the adjacent pen of massive swine half-coated in mud. 

Another barn sits closer to the house, the roof partially collapsed, sideboards missing periodically. The barn has obviously fallen into disrepair, far less maintained than the house, which has crude patches in the broken siding.

Tom pulls Ethan’s van right into the open barn, which is cluttered inside with rusting broken down automobiles. One side of the large barn is cleared of clutter, stacks of sanded wood piled up near a table saw. A wooden chair is nearby, in the process of being stained a beautiful cherry color.

Arrays of tools and farm equipment pile up in corners, and Ethan’s gaze locks on some sharp tools hanging from the wall.

If only…

No.

He can’t try to grab something to defend himself, not with his wrists bound behind his back. If only he had kept his mouth shut on the short drive over here.

There’s a moment when he’s alone in the van, when Tom steps out and slams the door behind him—just a small moment where Ethan allows himself to catch his breath, rein in his composure. And then Tom is throwing open Ethan’s door and dragging him out by his shirt collar again.

The pull is too rough, too careless—Ethan stumbles out of the van and crashes right into Tom.

Shit.

His face presses against Tom’s chest. Tom’s body is warm and solid. Somehow, the heat of his skin isn’t uncomfortable even in the stuffy heat inside the shaded barn.

Suddenly, strong fingers fist the back of his hair, tugging Ethan’s head back until he’s forced to back up, back his body away from Tom’s chest.

“Ow,” Ethan breathes, standing on the tips of his toes to tilt his head into Tom’s grip, trying to lessen the pressure. And then, because Tom told him not to speak anymore, he adds, “Sorry.”

It’s then that Ethan realizes that Tom is glaring at him with the most vexed, accusing expression.

What?

What did Ethan do wrong this time?

He doesn’t have time to figure it out, because Tom releases the grip on his hair and shoves him forward instead, towards the barn’s open door.

Right.

Okay. Ethan can do this. He can follow orders.

Just like in the cornfield, Ethan walks and Tom follows. This time, Tom places his hand threateningly on the back of Ethan’s neck, steering him towards the farmhouse.

Ethan can’t think.

Can’t concentrate on anything that isn’t Tom’s calloused palm on his sweat-slick neck.

He shouldn’t be embarrassed by how much he’s sweating. By the fact that Tom’s touching him at all. Not when he’s being held captive right now. Not when he’s a victim and it shouldn’t matter what Tom thinks at all.

But he_ is_ embarrassed, flushing red at the contact.

What is it about Tom that reduces Ethan to a timid mess of a human being?

Would Ethan be feeling this way if it wasn’t for the circumstances?

Yeah, he would be. 

But that’s the problem—even if he would have been attracted to a man like Tom under normal circumstances, he absolutely should not be right now, under these circumstances. 

An apprehensive, greasy mixture of arousal and disgust swirl together in his chest like oil and water.

Tom leads him up the front stairs of the farmhouse. From the silence and lack of commotion, Ethan guesses that there’s no one else home. Tom’s mother, sisters, and niece must still be dealing with the mess of motorcycles at the gas station down the road.

The musty interior is the first thing that hits Ethan as his eyes attempt to adjust to the lack of lighting within the home. Dust floats in small orbs through the air, catching the thin rays of sunlight that manage to penetrate gaps in the curtains. The air in the house contains the stale scent of cigarette smoke settled into every crevice.

Ethan’s footsteps echo too loudly on the scuffed wooden floor, but Tom’s are even louder, his heavy boots following Ethan as he nudges him along. 

Despite the worn look of the house itself, much of the furniture looks new and expensive, built by hand for practicality as well as decoration. A glimpse into what must be the living room reveals old, faded floral-print sofas and a heavy circular rug that looks just as ancient. 

Ethan flinches when Tom’s strong arm reaches around him to pull open a heavy door at the back of the house. Unlike the creaky wooden door hinged to the home’s entrance, this door is made of some sort of metal and is lined with several deadbolt locks.

Ethan can guess what’s behind the door before it swings open—and he’s right. He’s never wanted to be wrong so badly in his life. But no, just as he feared, the door reveals a staircase heading down. A basement.

A cellar.

A prison, if the ample locks on the door are any indication.

Why would any home need a row of deadbolts on the outside of a basement door, if it’s not meant to keep whatever’s in the basement trapped inside?

They wouldn’t.

No normal house needs that.

Ethan swallows, his whole body resisting as Tom pushes him towards the stairs. 

Some part of Ethan knows that if he goes down into this basement, he may never come back up again.

His hand twitches, wanting to reflexively grab the doorframe, dig his fingers into it—but his hands are bound. Instead, he roots himself in place, resisting Tom’s firm, insistent hand on the back of his neck, urging him forward.

“Wait,” Ethan breathes, knowing he’s not supposed to speak but risking it anyway—what else can he do? “Please—your mother, your sisters, they aren’t here yet. They won’t know. If you, if you just let me go, they won’t know, please—you saved me.”

Tom’s hand is heavy on his neck, but he stops pushing. The house is so quiet that Ethan can hear the man’s deep, steady breath at his back.

“You saved me. From those bikers. You saved me from getting killed in that lineup,” Ethan continues, voice shaking as hard as his bound hands. “I know you saved me. I’m grateful. If—if you let me go, I won’t tell anyone what happened, I’ll—”

Tom’s grip shifts suddenly to Ethan’s waist and for one horrifying moment, Ethan thinks he’s going to be shoved down the stairs. Instead, he’s pulled backwards, lifted from the ground like he weighs no more than a bail of hay.

Ethan’s thrown half over Tom’s shoulder, held in place with one arm wound around the back of his thighs, which crush his legs to Tom’s chest. With deliberate steps, Tom maneuvers them both, carrying Ethan through the door frame and down the basement stairs.

And.

And all Ethan can think over his terror at being taken into the basement is that…

Tom is carrying him.

Tom is carrying him when he could have just pushed him down the stairs.

Ethan bites his lip in disgust, choking back a sob at his own temporary insanity, because he should not still be looking for signs that this man is being kind to him.

Ethan should not be clinging to the hope that this cruel person will spare him from this mess—not when Tom is _actively holding him captive. _Not when he’s descending the stairs to lock Ethan up in some sort of murder basement.

The stairs creak with each step until Tom’s boots hit the concrete floor below. The air smells strongly of damp cinder blocks and disintegrating cardboard boxes. A hint of gasoline. It’s not an unfamiliar scent and that is enough to fill Ethan with relief. No stench of rotting corpses or fresh blood.

Tom moves effortlessly through the dark space, which is full of stacked boxes walling off different areas. Ethan can hardly make out anything other than vague shapes no matter how hard he squints.

Maybe that’s for the better.

And, yeah—it is, because when Tom yanks a chain on the ceiling to turn on a light bulb screwed into an exposed socket, Ethan sucks in a breath at what he sees.

Brownish red stains soak into the concrete floor like bruises, the discoloration pooling worse around drains embedded in the floor. Ethan’s brain immediately screams _blood. Bloodstains. _The alarm bells in Ethan’s head shriek louder when he spots the large freezer pushed against one wall, humming with power.

Hysterically, Ethan tries to tell himself he’s overreacting.

Stains on the basement floor and a large freezer do not a cannibal family make.

There were goats outside. Pigs.

Maybe… maybe they butcher them in the basement. Store them in the freezer down here.

Right. Because it totally makes sense that they’d corral an animal through the house and down the basement steps just to butcher it.

And then chains rattle overhead; thick linked, rusted things that end in hooks.

The kind of chains butchers use to string up meat.

Tom pushes the chains aside and drops Ethan’s body onto a sturdy table made of strong wood. 

Ethan can’t help the whine that escapes him when he crashes against the surface of the table, jolting pain into the bruises that surely coat his body after the biker’s beating.

Tom pauses at the noise, flashing him a hard, assessing look.

“Sorry,” Ethan murmurs, lying his face against the cool wooden surface of the table, because he can’t force himself to sit up with his hands bound behind his back. “I’m fine. Just bruises from earlier.”

Tom’s eyes narrow, as if Ethan is accusing him of something.

“Bruises from the bikers, I mean. Not you,” Ethan explains, forcing a facade of calm conversation. “You haven’t hurt me.”

It’s… true. And. Also not true at all.

Tom hasn’t hurt him like the bikers hurt him. Not physically. Not really. The careless shoves and hauling Ethan around like a rag doll hasn’t reached a point Ethan would consider particularly violent. But maybe his scale for measuring violence is off after what the bikers did to him.

Mentally, though, Tom has definitely hurt him. Even if Ethan really does manage to convince Tom to let him go, he’ll never be the same after this experience. He’ll always remember what it was like to have to barter with another man for his life, his safety. Because to Tom, right now, Ethan isn’t human. He can’t be. He must be some sort of object to him. There’s no basic empathy there, that all humans should have for one another.

Ethan can’t imagine what could make a person do what Tom is doing to him.

...Then again, maybe Ethan _can_ imagine.

Maybe he doesn’t have to.

He saw what Tom’s family was like.

How many generations has their family been this incredibly violent?

Where did it start?

When did the violence first get handed down the family line like an heirloom?

Tom can’t be much older than Ethan—late twenties, maybe. Early thirties at most. His sisters looked older.

Ethan squirms under Tom’s unending gaze, the way Tom assesses him from head to toe. He’s so vulnerable, curled up on the table, Tom looming over him with his towering height and terrifying bulk. For the longest time that’s all Tom does—stare. Unabashed. Broad chest rising and falling in heavy, audible breaths. 

It should be creepy—and, god, it is creepy—but Ethan’s arousal spikes under the man’s gaze. His entire body feels hot despite the cool temperature of the basement. There’s something about how little control he has right now that’s making his head swim and his blood rush south.

Tom. He’s—he’s so restrained. Every move measured. Nothing unnecessary. Everything about him is so deliberate.

What amount of desire would Tom have to be feeling for Ethan in order to break his restraint?

Is the way he’s staring now a break in restraint—or is it power? Is it doing exactly what he wants, when he wants, because Ethan is powerless to stop him?

Ethan bites his lip. A nervous gesture. A common one, for him. But it feels like an attempt at seduction when he flashes his eyes up to catch Tom’s gaze.

Tom stops breathing, his chest stilling visibly.

And then he starts again.

In a flash, Tom seizes Ethan’s shirt collar—which at this point, is a familiar enough gesture that Ethan manages to stifle his squeak of surprise. Ethan’s manhandled, flipped around so that Tom has better access to—

To his bound wrists.

Just his bound wrists.

Of course Tom wasn’t going to yank his pants down. Take him roughly and painfully from behind.

No. That’s. All in Ethan’s head. He’s been reading everything wrong this whole time.

Somehow, right now, Ethan feels like the creep.

Tom yanks down one of the thick chains bolted to the ceiling overhead and winds it around Ethan’s arms, effectively snuffing any chance Ethan thought he had to get out of this place.

He’s chained up in this man’s basement.

No amount of denial or lust will change that.

He’s this man’s captive.

And by the sound of it, he’s going to be butchered. Chopped to bits and stored in the freezer across the room.

Reduced to his component parts. Meat and bone. Blood and hunks of unusable flesh washed down the drain in the floor.

If Tom was staring earlier, it’s because he thought Ethan looked like something he’d like to kill slowly.

Shit.

For the first time, Ethan’s heart beats with a sickening dread that’s completely devoid of any hope. 

He’s going to die here.

Without a word, Tom turns away, walks back up the stairs and shuts the door behind him.

Ethan is left sprawled on the table.

Alone.

Chained and most horrifically, still aroused.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

He presses his face against the table and cries.


	6. Chapter 6

Ethan stifles his sobs when Tom’s heavy footsteps sound on the floor overhead. It’s been a while since Tom first left Ethan alone. Too long and not long enough. Twenty minutes maybe? An hour? Ten minutes? Ethan has no idea. But Tom does return eventually, carrying Ethan’s luggage down the stairs with him, depositing it carelessly in an already cluttered corner of the basement.

Terror strikes Ethan’s heart like a quick frost, splintering with icy pain. His luggage. Everything in his van that he brought with him. Carried down into this basement to never be seen again. Just like him. Somehow, that disturbs Ethan wholly—knowing that every trace of him has been stolen. What will they do with his van? Will his friends and family ever know what happened to him? Will they think he skipped town and ran away from his life? 

A fresh round of sobs crashes through Ethan’s body, silent but wet. Tears leak sloppily down his face, cooling by the time they hit his hairline, soaking into his scalp uncomfortably.

Everything Ethan brought with him is in this basement.

Tom has no intention of letting him go.

He’s going to die down here.

The truth about what happened to him is going to die down here, too, destroyed along with all of his belongings.

Tom pauses at a particularly loud hitch of breath from Ethan. Slowly, he turns and stalks over to the table Ethan’s still curled up and bound on.

Tom looms like he always does, because how can he not loom with his imposing height and stature? There’s something about the way he looms that prickles Ethan’s skin—there’s no hesitance in it, only confidence. Confidence that he is allowed to look at Ethan unabashedly. No one can stop him.

Tom’s proximity makes Ethan’s breath stutter and stop, and then start back up again at full speed.

Tom tilts his head like he’s never seen a rabbit frozen by a predator’s gaze before. Like Ethan is something new and interesting that demands further investigation. The worst part is that Tom doesn’t seem to be disingenuous. It’s like he’s never seen another man for longer than it takes to maim, butcher, and kill them.

That doesn’t bode well, because it means that he doesn’t plan to keep Ethan alive very long.

Ethan swallows his tears. Sucks in a quaking breath that hurts like packing air down into his lungs. He needs to say something. Think of something. He can’t give up. 

“There's, there’s, uh, food in one of my bags. The red one.” Ethan feels delirious, asking for food when his stomach is still churning from the day’s events. But he knows he needs to force himself to eat if Tom will let him. Knows he has to keep his strength up. “Do you think you could maybe let me eat some?”

Asking for food is as good a way as any to tentatively prod Tom’s boundaries again, try to force a sense of dependency on this man. Because maybe someone like Tom, isolated as he is within his family, needs someone to need him.

Just fractionally, Tom’s gaze hardens at the question.

Ethan forces an awkward laugh, as if this is a normal conversation in which he’s asking a friend to borrow lunch money, embarrassed at having to ask. “I kinda lost my lunch earlier. I’m just glad I managed to avoid puking all over your boots.”

Tom’s eyes fall to Ethan’s lips, which are split and bloody.

This time, Ethan’s nervous laugh isn’t forced. He struggles to wiggle himself into a sitting position on the table. The chain binding him rattles. “I—I’m not asking to be untied. You can just feed it to me. I’d really appreciate it.”

Honestly, Ethan’s not even sure he’ll be able to stomach even a few bites of food. His appetite is completely gone. He can’t imagine ever wanting to eat again after what he’s seen today. But if Tom takes the bait, it’ll all be worth having to swallow down a few bites of granola bar. He needs to give Tom reasons to be lenient to him.

“You can have some of my food, too. I don’t mind sharing,” Ethan adds, absurdly. Really, anything Ethan owns is as good as Tom’s now. The man hasn’t asked for permission for anything yet, he’s just taken. Taken Ethan captive. Why should his possessions be any different?

“The red one?” Tom asks flatly, startling Ethan.

It takes Ethan a moment to realize that he’s asking for confirmation about what suitcase the food is in. “Yeah—yeah, the red one. There are boxes of protein bars and bottled water in there. You can have anything you want.”

Tom turns without a word and crosses the room in several strides, hoisting Ethan’s red luggage from the bottom of the pile and rifling through its contents. He emerges with the box of granola bars and a bottle of water. 

Ethan could kick himself for the way his heart soars hopefully at this. As if it means anything. As if Tom isn’t going to do something cruel next, like crush the food and dump out the water right into the drain on the floor.

But…

Tom hasn’t done anything cruel to Ethan yet. Unless he counts chaining him up and keeping him hostage—then, yeah, he’s been cruel. None of that _feels_cruel though, not when Tom is so stoic about it all. It feels more like Tom humanely chained up an unruly animal rather than tied up a human in his basement.

Maybe it’s Ethan’s own doing that Tom hasn’t been expressly violent. Maybe it’s because Ethan has been trying hard to not kick and scream as any victim should. Maybe he’s still in denial about being a victim, as if he still believes somewhere in the back of his mind that showing this man enough kindness will diffuse this situation entirely.

It’s never going to happen.

Tom unwraps the granola bar, peeling it open ineptly, like he’s never done it before. He shoves it in Ethan’s direction so haphazardly that it bangs against Ethan’s lip, splitting it newly.

“Ow,” Ethan cries out reflexively, pulling back, and then, remembering himself, manages to smile up at Tom. “Sorry, thanks.”

He’s about to lean forward and attempt to take a bite of the granola bar when Tom reaches forward with his free hand and swipes the pad of his thumb over Ethan’s lip.

Ethan’s too stunned to recoil.

Tom pulls back his hand, fresh blood from Ethan’s lip coating his thumb. 

He…

He wiped the blood off of Ethan’s split lip.

And—and now Tom’s… bringing the bloody thumb to his lips, sucking the pad absently, as if he’s licking blood from his own wound.

But it’s not Tom’s blood.

It’s Ethan’s blood.

Ethan’s not sure how he feels about that.

Tom shoves the bar in Ethan’s direction again, seemingly unaware of the blatant shock on Ethan’s face.

Ethan rips his gaze away from Tom’s mouth and takes a bite. The granola is excruciatingly dry, too sharp when he swallows prematurely. Still, he forces himself to take bite after bite until the bar is gone.

It strikes Ethan as exceedingly gentle, the way Tom tips the water bottle for him to drink from, next. Even if the water does spill down the sides of Ethan’s face from his own clumsiness. Tom wipes the water from Ethan’s chin too, again, with his hand, rough and unexpected.

Ethan can’t help but watch the man with festering curiosity. Tom’s intentions feel so… gentle, even though his every movement is rough and forceful. Ethan must have a concussion, he’s completely lost his ability to judge any situation properly.

A crash resounds from somewhere upstairs, making Ethan flinch. Tom’s family must be home. 

The footsteps that follow overhead seem to bristle Tom—he hurriedly grabs the empty water bottle and granola wrapper, crossing the room and shoving them back into Ethan’s luggage.

Tom’s trying to hide the evidence that he showed Ethan even a scrap of kindness, isn’t he?

Ethan’s sure of it when the basement door opens and Beth appears on the steps, carelessly dragging Ricky’s limp body down the stairs, his head smashing against each splintering wooden step with repetitive thuds. 

Ethan tries his best to look miserable and abused, just in case his relative calm alerts Beth to her brother’s kindnesses. 

“Could’a used you to help haul those bikes into the truck,” Beth grunts as she drops Ricky’s body at Tom’s feet. “You know Sal’s refused to do any real lifting since the pregnancy. I swear one of these days I’m gonna make her wish she didn’t know how to run her mouth.”

Tom doesn’t respond, just lifts Ricky’s limp body onto the table next to Ethan.

Ethan scoots as far away from Ricky as possible. He assesses the situation with downcast eyes. Ricky is still breathing, despite the blood oozing down his forehead from his hairline. Wet, liquid red mingling with sticky drying maroon.

It makes Ethan sick to be this close to Ricky. Even beat up and unconscious as he is. All he can think about is Ricky’s cruel laughter as he fondled him. As if Ethan wasn't even human, just a body to play with.

Tom hauls a second chain down from the rafters, fastening it around Ricky’s arms, just as he did Ethan’s.

Yeah. Ethan’s tied up just like Ricky. No difference. He’s a captive here. No difference. No special treatment. His breath quickens. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the memory of Tom hiding the granola wrapper and water bottle in the luggage. As if he didn’t want his family to know he showed Ethan a scrap of decency.

The thought manages to keep the hyperventilation at bay.

“This one give you any trouble?” Beth grunts, stretching out a kink in her back. As if dragging a live human captive down the stairs was just some normal everyday heavy lifting.

Tom’s only response is a blank expression.

Beth laughs, short and cruel. “No, I suppose he didn’t.” Her eyes fall on Ethan. She sucks her teeth in assessment, amusement in her icy blue eyes. “Course he didn’t. City boys ain’t never got any decent fight in them.”

Again, no response from Tom.

Beth doesn’t seem to notice or care, instead she scans the room as if trying to remember if she’s forgetting anything. When her gaze lands on Ethan’s luggage, obvious and out of place in the corner of the basement, she freezes.

“What the hell’d you bring that shit down here for?” Beth snaps, fixing a glare at Tom. She doesn’t wait for a reply before trudging over to the luggage. “Holy fuck, who raised you to be this stupid? Sure as hell wasn’t Ma.”

Ethan’s eyes are on Tom as Beth spits the harsh words, so he sees it plain as day when Tom _flinches_ at the insult. It’s obvious. Visible. Backed up by the slight frown that tugs at Tom’s lips in response. The twitch of a snarl.

Still, Ethan can barely believe his eyes.

Is it possible that a powerful, dangerous man like Tom is really bothered by something so trivial as an insult from his sister?

Does the word _stupid_ really strike wounds in Tom’s self-esteem? Or is it Beth’s disapproval in general that gets to him?

Beth doesn’t wait for a response before she starts ripping through Ethan’s luggage, scattering his clothes and possessions to the floor in successive scoops, like a dog digging under a fence. There’s something rabid about it. Furious.

And Beth is plainly furious when she finds what she’s looking for—Ethan’s cell phone. She straightens and whirls around, teeth bared.

“You fucking imbecile!” she screams as she marches up to Tom, waving the phone. She wastes no time reaching right up and slapping Tom across the face so hard his head whips to the side. The sound of skin striking skin resounds sharply off the cinderblock walls.

Ethan forgets to breathe momentarily, shocked at the sudden casual violence.

Tom doesn’t budge, face angled towards the floor now. His fists are clenched at his side, and it reads absurdly to Ethan like an attempt to regulate emotion, rather than an attempt to restrain a violent urge.

No, Tom’s demeanor almost reads as submissive, the way he keeps his eyes downcast. He’s ready for his sister to hit him again, to keep screaming at him. He’s bracing for it. Letting it happen.

One question runs through Ethan’s mind: how long has she been doing this to him?

“Don’t you fucking know better?!” Beth screams at the top of her lungs, right in Tom’s face. She’s tall enough that she only has to straighten a little to get in his face. “I know you fucking know better, ‘cause I done fucking told you!”

Tom is still as he takes the verbal onslaught without even the slightest sign of protest.

“The government and the law can track these things!” she spits, jabbing Tom hard in the chest with the corner of the phone.

Ethan hadn’t even thought about that. Beth’s phrasing is beyond paranoid but she has a point—smartphones have GPS. Ethan honestly isn’t sure if the GPS works if the phone doesn’t have a signal, though.

Still, his phone had to have had signal at some point, right? Even if it wasn’t for ten miles, it still should give people a relative location for where he went missing, whenever someone does realize he went missing.

Which won’t be for weeks from now when he doesn’t come home on the date he said he would.

Fuck.

Weeks. No one will report him missing for weeks.

His trip was planned for the entire summer. His parents won’t be surprised if he doesn’t call to check in with them, with how much he stressed that this trip was about asserting his independence. 

The worry that he’s not going to survive this pulses in his mind, along with an inappropriate desire to tell Tom that he honestly forgot about the cell phone. That he wasn’t trying to trick Tom into leading law enforcement here or something, by withholding the information.

Maybe it’s self-preservation doing its job, maybe it’s a concussion, but more than anything, Ethan doesn’t want Tom to think he’s been disingenuous with him.

“Well?” Beth demands. “Ain’t you gonna say anything?”

“Forgot,” comes Tom’s grunt of a reply. It earns him another ringing slap across the face—and then another, and another, a barrage of growled frustrations as Beth beats him with both hands, hurling all her strength into the punches.

Tom stands there. Takes it. Rooted in place, unswayed by the raw power in his sister’s punches that rivals his own.

He doesn’t hit back. Doesn’t make a move to defend himself.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Beth growls, whipping around to fix her rage on Ethan.

Ethan flinches, attempts to scramble away, only to bump into Ricky’s unconscious body with what little give the chain has.

When Beth starts to advance on Ethan, looking ready to beat him too, Tom grabs her by the elbow, halting her.

“The other man,” Tom says, voice steady in a way it shouldn’t be after what just happened. “The biker. Where is he?”

Beth’s nostrils flare and she jerks out of Tom’s grasp, but Tom’s distraction seems to have worked, because she says, “Upstairs. Go get him.”

Tom nods obediently. There’s already obvious swelling near his eye, the skin red and puffy where Beth’s fist slammed into his cheekbone. 

No. 

No. Ethan tries to will Tom not to go. To not leave him alone down here with Beth.

Luckily Beth huffs and says, “Thanks to you I’m going to have to drive this phone back down the way it came. Probably two dozen miles at least. Maybe more. Throw off the law before getting rid of the thing.”

Tom follows his sister when she starts making her way back towards the basement stairs, seeming to forget about her previous bloodlust. 

“Ain’t no way I’ll be back before supper. Hope you’re happy, Tommy,” Beth complains, as she and Tom disappear up the stairs.

It’s not until the basement door closes behind them that Ethan realizes how fast his heart is pounding against his ribcage.


	7. Chapter 7

Jed, it seems, is in much better condition than Ricky. Tom leads him down the stairs conscious, a blade as incentive against Jed’s back. It’s significantly harsher treatment than Ethan was subjected to by Tom, and boy, does Ethan _notice._  
_  
_It’s awkward, now, thinking about interacting with Tom at all now that Jed is in the basement, fully awake. Ethan bites back the words he wants to say to Tom, a honey-sweet apology about forgetting all about the cell phone in his luggage. The regret wouldn’t even be a lie, either. Not entirely. Not when telling Tom about the cell phone could have been great leverage for gaining Tom’s trust. Ethan would have easily traded the hope of the cell phone for a chance to throw fuel on his hope that Tom will spare him when the time comes. 

Escape attempts are a risk. A quick death, if caught—or not quick at all, maybe just brutal. There’s a slim chance he can escape if he gets another opportunity, and he’s not sure at this point whether he’ll take it or freeze with caution again. But it’s risky. So risky. 

Winning Tom over, though…

If Ethan can manage it, it’s a certain way out of this mess—because while Tom’s sisters are not dainty, frail women, Tom manages to have at least six inches on them, and ample muscle mass. Either of Tom’s sisters could easily overpower Ethan—which isn’t to say Ethan is weak—it’s just that height and muscle seems to run in these people’s family. The sisters have bodies built from hard labor, and the most physical activity Ethan gets is when he goes hiking on the weekends.

Tom’s been giving Ethan special treatment. He’s sure now more than ever, seeing the blade held to Jed’s back. That means his plan to try to befriend Tom isn’t so crazy after all. But. As Ethan watches Tom bind Jed on the table next to Ricky’s slumped body, Ethan can’t help remembering the way Tom’s erection strained in his pants in the cornfield.

Is Ethan really just _trying to befriend_ Tom?

No.

He’s not, is he?

If this is going to be his survival strategy, he might as well be honest with himself: his plan is to seduce Tom. Make him want to keep Ethan alive in the most animal of ways.

Ethan doesn’t know if his own illicit attraction to Tom makes the plan easier or harder.

Lines are blurring already—he’s not sure where the attraction he’s been experiencing is coming from, so overwhelming that it overpowers his fear and common sense.

Jed grunts as the chains are fastened around his arms, but he keeps his mouth shut, which surprises Ethan. The skin around his left eye is purple. Whatever part isn’t swollen completely shut is crusted over with drying blood. His mouth is bleeding actively, more than just a split lip. Sure enough, when Jed bears his teeth to growl a protest at Tom’s roughness, he’s missing several of his front teeth.

No wonder Jed isn’t talking.

Something tells Ethan that it was talking that got Jed’s teeth knocked out in the first place.

So it feels like delicious payback when Ethan looks at Tom and says, “Hey, I’m so sorry about the cell phone. I completely forgot about it. I should have told you it was in there.”

Tom pauses as Ethan speaks. Listens. 

Ethan struggles to come up with something more believable to add, but his head is too foggy to come up with anything better.

For a moment Ethan doesn’t think he’s going to get a reply, but just barely perceptibly, Tom nods as if in acceptance of Ethan’s words.

Ethan can’t believe such a feeble apology didn’t arouse suspicion. How sheltered is this man from modern society? He must be extremely sheltered if he doesn’t know that cell phones are a lifeline most people wouldn’t forget. Ethan almost laughs out loud at the fact that he did indeed forget he had it for a hot minute.

Jed, despite his busted mouth, does laugh; a cruel, choking sound. “Really boy? You forgot you had your phone on you?”

It’s easy for Ethan to shoot a glare down at the man when they’re both tied up, unable to reach each other.

“People your age are glued to those things. Who are you trying to fool?”

Ethan isn’t trying to fool anyone—and even if he was, it’s in Jed’s best interest to shut his mouth and help Ethan escape. Or is Jed sharp enough to know that Ethan would think twice about helping the bikers that abused him?

Or at least, Ethan tells himself he would think twice. In reality though, Ethan’s not sure he could live with knowing his own actions led to someone else’s death. Even if that someone else is Jed.

There’s a guilt that’s sure to come, there. The guilt of standing by. Doing nothing. A bystander’s shame. Ethan’s seen it worn on others throughout his life, had that shame spilled in apologies at his feet when his so-called friends stood by while the middle-school bullies slammed Ethan against lockers for being too close to their girlfriends.

Ethan couldn’t help it, he’s always gotten along with women better than men. Always found himself desiring friendships built on communication and mutual respect rather than what he found in men his own age—which was all about posturing and liking the same sports rather than anything meaningful.

Maybe that inclination towards befriending the opposite gender was the first sign of his sexuality. That disconnect of not relating to the straight men around him, obsessed with sports and cars and girls. His female friends, however, were obsessed with the same things as him—namely… guys.

“Who are you trying to fool, boy?” Jed repeats, antagonistic. “What do you think, they’ll let you out of this? You know what they want us for, don’t you? They’re fucking _cannibals.”_  
_  
_This whole time, Tom has studiously paid Jed no mind, but at this he turns to shuffle through some drawers on the workbench across from the table.

The freezer humming in the corner of the basement becomes much more ominous.

Ethan tells himself to relax. Takes a deep breath. He knew. He already knew. There have been enough context clues this entire time to point to this being a family of cannibals. The thought has crossed his mind several times over.

But that doesn’t mean he wants to believe it.

Ethan closes his eyes. Accepts that cannibals might be exactly what he’s dealing with.

Tom could be a cannibal.

“I don’t care what they are,” Ethan snaps at Jed, courage bolstered by his eyes squeezed shut. The fact that Jed is restrained and virtually harmless right now. “I’d rather be eaten by cannibals than molested by your bikers again.”

It’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough that Ethan manages a copious amount of venom behind his words. In reality, Ethan would rather take the road that keeps him alive. 

“You sure about that you fucking slut?” Jed bites back.

Tom whips around, expression murderous.

Oh.

Did—

Did Ethan anger Tom by talking back to Jed?

A ripping sound tears through the basement as Tom pulls a length of silver duct tape from its roll. He stomps up to Jed, slapping the tape over his mouth. Jed struggles, screaming muffled protests to no avail. Tom wraps the tape all the way around Jed’s head, as tight as he can, unconcerned about the tape running across the man’s matted hair.

The whole thing is beyond excessive, how much duct tape ends up wound around Jed’s head just to cover his mouth. But Ethan almost feels smug.

Ethan’s breath catches in his throat when Tom steps away, satisfied with his handiwork, and fixes a hard look on Ethan, who looks back curiously.

“Who?” Tom asks, voice a dangerous overhang of icicles. 

“Who… what?” Ethan asks, timid now under Tom’s gaze. He feels like a pet rolling over to expose its stomach whenever Tom looks at him.

“Touched you,” Tom replies coldly. “Who did it?”

Oh. Of course Tom heard Ethan just now, accusing Jed’s men of molesting him. He hadn’t thought that particular information would mean anything to Tom.

“Wh-Why do you want to know?” Ethan asks.

Tom doesn’t answer, his expression simply grows angry as he points slowly to Jed, as if in question.

Jed is frantic beneath the duct tape, muffled protests made clear by the way he’s rapidly shaking his head to deny his involvement.

Ethan carefully shakes his head _no. _“Wasn’t him.”

Like clockwork, Tom points to Ricky, who is still unconscious.

A crawling sensation of dread oozes down Ethan’s spine like an egg has been cracked on top of his head.

What is Tom going to do if Ethan confirms that Ricky is the one who sexually assaulted him?

Does it matter, after what Ricky did to him?

Ethan pictures his best friend Jasmine from middle school in tears after her boyfriend beat Ethan up for spending too much time with her. Pictures her frantic apologies for not stopping it while it was happening. For watching instead.

Will he feel guilty if something bad happens to Ricky?

Will he care?

Will he feel like the man deserved it?

Maybe Jasmin’s guilt came from the fact that she knew that Ethan didn’t deserve the beating.

Ricky. He hurt Ethan. He deserves some sort of punishment.

But… who is Ethan to decide?

Ethan turns his head away, eyes downcast. He can’t confirm it. Can’t deny it, either.

It turns out that’s all the confirmation Tom needs.

In a flash, Tom’s ripping Ricky from his restraints with a snarl. Chains rattle, shrill and metallic as Ricky’s pulled from the table and tossed, still unconscious, onto the floor.

“N-No, wait, Tom, wait,” Ethan says, cringing at his use of Tom’s name, which clearly set the man off last time he tried to use it. “It, it wasn’t that bad. He just groped me. Scared me. Made some gross comments, it wasn’t—it wasn’t—”

Ethan stutters on the last dregs of defense. Because… he can’t defend this man. Can’t say what the man did to him wasn’t traumatic, wasn’t sexual assault, even if it didn’t get a chance to escalate to anything worse.

Regardless, Tom ignores him entirely, hauling Ricky’s limp body over his shoulder and carrying it to a metal table over by the freezer. Ethan has to strain against his own chains to look over his shoulder, barely able to see the freezer or the slab of a metal surface at all.

And. Maybe that’s for the best, because the next thing Tom does is pick up a blade that looks more like a mallet than a knife.

A butcher’s knife.

Ethan whips his face forward, away from the scene of Ricky sprawled on the slab and Tom positioning the cleaver over the man’s neck.

There’s no blood-curdling scream like there was when Tom ran the biker through with his chainsaw. No, Ricky is unconscious. There’s no torture. No self-aware pain as Tom ends his life. Just a sickening squelch as the blade’s flat surface drags quickly through something wet. And then the choppy, splintering crunch of blade severing bone.

Ethan’s chest heaves in fear even though he expected this. 

A quick, stupid glance over his shoulder reveals Ricky’s head decapitated from his body, his blood pooling on the metal slab’s surface to overflow onto the concrete floor.

No wonder the concrete in the basement is stained several shades of brown. The edges of the stains are watery like coffee rings left from a mug.

The musty basement air floods with the stench of raw meat, coppery blood. Chains rattle. When Ethan dares to look back again—because he must, because he needs to know what Tom is capable of—Tom is lifting Ricky’s headless body upside down by chains around his feet, to hang from the ceiling.

Tom’s draining him. Draining his blood. Like an animal strung up in a butcher’s shop. 

Ricky’s blood drips from his neck slower than Ethan would expect, splattering onto the concrete floor like a gently running faucet.

Tom pulls a hose off of the wall and sprays the bloody concrete, letting the now vaguely pink mixture wash down one of the floor’s many drains.

Jed is pale and wheezing through his nose as if he’s never seen something so horrific. 

Ethan has no sympathy for Jed.

Jed wasn’t horrified by what he did to Ethan. What Ricky and his gang did to Ethan. But he’s horrified by this kind of violence? By killing someone quickly and draining their blood?

It is horrifying. It is disgusting and violent and _wrong—_but how is it that much worse than Jed’s own crimes? Because Ethan’s sure that Jed and his gang had planned to leave him beaten to death on the side of the road.

Ethan’s almost insulted by the notion that wounds that don’t break too much skin are somehow less lethal than what Tom is doing to Ricky now. The pain the beating left in Ethan’s abdomen and ribs may very well end up deadly—he has no idea what kind of damage the beating left hidden behind his skin. Hell, he hasn’t even gotten a chance to lift his shirt and asses the bruising. 

Ethan needs medical attention at an actual hospital. Needs Tom to agree to that, somehow, and that seems like a tougher mountain to climb than college and a career and a happy future ever was.

Fuck.  
_  
Fuck._  
__  
He should have never left home.


	8. Chapter 8

Ethan doesn’t turn around to watch when Tom begins butchering Ricky’s body. It’s enough—far too much—-just to be unable to block out the sound of skin being pulled away from meat, saws carving through bone. 

Ricky’s body is being segmented, pulled apart and packed away. Wrapped in paper and twine and stored in the freezer.

Ethan flinches every time the freezer opens with a familiar suction sound, the hum of it growing louder, another piece of Ricky being stored inside. 

Is that going to be him, soon?

Are all of Ethan’s efforts to treat Tom like a human being going to amount merely to being saved for last? He doesn’t want to die, not like this. Doesn’t want to be packed into the freezer in hastily wrapped sections, never to be heard from again. 

He can’t leave his parents with their only child’s disappearance weighing on their shoulders for the rest of their lives. How painful will that be for them—never quite knowing what happened to him, whether he’s dead or alive, whether he’s suffering? Will they think he abandoned them? The sudden wanderlust that drove him to take this trip may certainly make them question if he’s simply a runaway. Will they blame themselves? Comb over every last bit of their parenting to dissect why he would want to ghost them?

And what if they did catch his killers? Would that be worse—knowing that their son was slaughtered and eaten by a family of cannibals? Would finding out he suffered such a gruesome fate be better than the sick whirlwind of never knowing?

Fuck.  
_  
Fuck, __fuck__, __fuck__._  
_  
_Ethan needs to figure this out. Needs to come out of this alive. Dying isn’t an option. He can’t do that to his family.

He hates himself for not grabbing as much of his stuff as he could carry and making a run for it when he still had the chance.

He was a fool.

It seems so silly now, his own hesitance to abandon his van even though it was running on empty. His trust in society driving him to try to get help from the gas station employees instead of saving his own skin.

Ethan breathes, smothering his face in his shoulder, trying to drown out the smell of blood and meat with his own body odor.

This isn’t his fault.

He… he can’t blame himself for making one snap decision after another when he’s never been in such a high-stakes series of events. It won’t do any good.

With Tom busy stuffing what remains of Ricky’s butchered body into cloth sacks for disposal, Ethan strains to look around the basement with a fresh perspective.

Flimsy tool storage lines the wall by the metal butchering table, filled with potential weapons that are of course out of reach in his current position. But Ethan would rather not go the _fight _route anyway. Flight is his best bet against these people. He’s already beaten in terms of numbers, strength, and not to mention experience with violence towards other human beings. 

Several bright red plastic gasoline cans are shoved under the stairs. The faint smell of gasoline is strong enough that Ethan's sure the cans are full. That bothers him. It's incredibly unsafe to store gasoline in a basement. Why not keep it in the barn?

Behind him, far across the large basement, the sun shines through the slight crack in a cellar door that must lead outside. The doors on the hatch are metal, the handles wrapped in chain and boasting several padlocks. There are no windows.

It’s clearer now more than ever that this half of the basement is set up for butchering—the hooked chains hanging from the ceiling. The stainless steel chopping block. The drains on the floor. But what kind of animal would be easy to drag into this basement for butchering when a barn would allow for much easier access than the small cellar door?

The question answers itself—it was set up for butchering humans. For keeping live humans chained up. But why? What made this family so prone to killing that they have a dedicated space for it?

The left side of the basement is segmented off by a partial wall, Ethan has no idea what’s behind there. A curtain made from a tacked-up blanket hangs in the doorless opening that leads into that side of the room. The curtain’s drape is snagged a bit on a cardboard box against the wall. If Ethan leans forward just a bit against his chains and cranes to look, maybe he’ll be able to see inside…

Thankfully, Jed seems to understand what Ethan’s doing, because he leans back to allow Ethan to peer around his body. 

Through the gap in the curtain, Ethan makes out the corner of a broken wooden dresser, clothes spilling out of the bottom drawer. The end of a flimsy bed frame.

Does… does Tom _live _down here?

Ethan saw the rest of the house when Tom walked him through it—the upstairs was oddly furnished and slightly too rustic, but it was livable. It was impoverished, but not unsanitary. Nothing compared the musty, unwelcoming conditions of this basement. 

Tom’s family forces him to live down here? Like some sort of animal?

It reminds Ethan of neglected family dogs that he’d sometimes see chained up permanently in backyards, flea infested and sad, with chunks of fur missing, ear tips eaten raw by flies.

He never understood how anyone could neglect an animal like that, let alone a child.

But Tom isn’t a child. He’s a grown man who is currently butchering another human being. Ethan shouldn’t spare one ounce of sympathy for him, especially when everything he’s thinking is just an assumption, anyway.

But he has a reason for assuming, doesn’t he? The way Tom’s sister beat him so viciously without Tom showing any signs of fighting back. The way Tom’s mother glared at him suspiciously when Tom chimed in on the discussion of who to pick for butchering and who to leave dead on the road. The way all the women encouraged Daisy, a mere child, to murder a man in cold blood.

There is a strong chance that Tom has been warped and groomed by a lifetime of abuse. Hell, there’s a chance his sisters have been, too. But Tom’s the only one he hasn’t seen relish in abuse and murder yet. Tom hasn’t seemed to take pleasure in it at all—by all appearances, Tom has simply been following orders.

At least, that’s what Ethan will have to tell himself to make his own plight easier. He needs to try to see Tom as a human being if he wants Tom to see him as one.

But this honesty shit has to stop. Ethan can’t pull metaphorical punches anymore. He needs to seduce this man, needs to lie his way into this man’s heart, if that’s what it takes to survive. He needs to blast as much charm as he can muster full-force.

And he’s thinking… he’s thinking it might work—because Tom is certainly sheltered beyond imagination. It doesn’t matter that Ethan isn’t the hottest guy ever, or the most charming—he thinks, in hindsight, Tom has enjoyed simply having Ethan’s attention on him.

There’s no room for second guessing anymore.

Ethan is going to do everything in his power to make Tom adore him.

And then, when Tom is willing, or when Tom loosens the leash enough to give him an opening—Ethan is going to make a run for it.

At some point, Ethan falls asleep amidst the butchering. It says something about how exhausted he is that he can nod off while chained so uncomfortably, with the backdrop of knives sawing through human bone echoing off the cinder block walls behind him. When he wakes, though, it’s to find Tom standing before him, staring at Ethan’s body slumped, bound and sleeping on the table.

This leaves no momentary illusion that he hasn’t been kidnapped—that it was all a bad dream. Ethan’s vision swims with Tom’s blank expression, his blood-smeared bulk. It does take several long seconds for Ethan’s brain functions to catch up with him. When they do, he’s simultaneously creeped out and… elated. He was right. Tom _likes him_, doesn’t he? He must, to stare at him in his sleep like that. How long has he been there?

There’s that almost-childlike innocence again, that raw curiosity in the slight tilt of Tom’s head when Ethan responds by yawning and smiling at him.

“Hi,” Ethan says, sitting up and keeping his expression soft. The smile is mostly genuine—because his chest fills with lightness at the renewed hope that his plan will work.

Tom frowns like Ethan’s response isn’t what he expects—like nothing about Ethan is what he expects. It’s as close to an expression of surprise as this man seems capable of making.

How long did butchering Ricky take him? How long was Ethan sleeping?

“You’ve been working hard today,” Ethan says gently, maintaining a tentative, shy sort of eye contact that isn’t entirely a show. “I’d be exhausted if I were you.”

That causes Tom’s face to twist in offended confusion. His breath visibly escalates in his chest.

What? What did that make him feel? Why? Is it that Ethan’s not responding with the fear and pleading Tom’s used to? Or was it something he said? The praise? The acknowledgement of the man’s feelings or needs? Does that alarm him? Is he not used to being treated like a human being?

As soon as Ethan considers the question, the answers fall into place rapidly. It makes sense that Tom might have mixed feelings about being treated kindly by a stranger when his own family seems to treat him like an attack dog. 

“Hey,” Ethan says, gently, scooting forward on the table as much as his chains will allow. Tom’s eyes flick down his body and back up to his face again, before he takes a step back. “Thank you for taking Ricky away. I feel much safer now.”

It’s the biggest lie he’s managed so far and he feels sick saying it. Ethan doesn’t know what Ricky deserved—but he didn’t want to be responsible for making the choice to end another person’s life. Even despite what Ricky did to him. He doesn’t feel sorry for the man, necessarily, just sick knowing Tom can take another person’s life so easily. Sick knowing he himself played a role, however small, in some sort of vigilantism that resulted in another man’s death.

But he knows Tom did this for him. Killed Ricky for him. Just like Tom spared him from his chainsaw and spared him again in the lineup. It was a gift. So Ethan will play the role of a grateful recipient.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Ethan says gently, “but thank you.”

After a long look, Tom nods.

It’s the first real response Ethan has managed to extract from Tom, and it feels like a victory.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” Ethan says with a surge of confidence. He can do this. He can get through to Tom. He can control the conversation. He can take this situation by the reins and guide Tom towards a conclusion that doesn’t end with Ethan dismembered in a freezer. He just needs to take things slow. “Did you need something from me?”

Again, slowly, Tom responds without words, simply shaking his head. He never breaks eye contact, and Ethan can feel his own face heating under the intensity. Tom is standing so close. Looming. Looking at Ethan like he’s a precious new thing he owns. A possession.

Ethan feels possessed.

And Ethan—well. Ethan’s body decides on its own how to respond to that.

The sudden surge of arousal makes him self-conscious, and Ethan remembers for the first time the other captive beside him. Jed is still gagged, slumped limply in his chains. He must be sleeping. Or more likely, slipped into unconsciousness from his wounds. 

Thank goodness. Ethan does not need an audience for the private humiliation he’s putting himself through by attempting to befriend Tom. What’s worse is that it doesn’t even feel humiliating when it’s just Ethan alone with Tom—but as soon as Ethan imagines his friends or family or even Jed looking in on what he’s doing—_God, _it feels so wrong.

“Well, if you… need,” Ethan pauses slightly on the word, giving it a soft emphasis that glows with implication, “anything from me. Anything at all, let me know, alright?”

Ethan swears he can see Tom’s breath hitch and then start again at double speed.

So Ethan adds, “You’ve done so much for me today. I owe you.”

Tom’s gaze bounces around Ethan’s face, and somehow Ethan manages not to flinch when Tom reaches out to touch a tuft of Ethan’s auburn curls. 

Ethan looks up at Tom’s hand—his wrist is so thick, his fingers, too. Yet he’s touching Ethan’s hair so gently, just stroking it between his fingers. Ethan was right to think Tom had an innocence about him, like he’s never touched another human being like this before.

Maybe he hasn’t.

Maybe he’s more of a virgin than Ethan is, without media and a normal life within society spoiling some of the mystery of sex and intimacy before it happens.

Ethan lets out an involuntary, satisfied hum at the way his scalp tingles pleasantly under Tom’s small touch, the sensation rolling down his spine.

Tom’s eyes widen infinitesimally, and then he jerks his hand away as if burned. 

Ethan starts to protest, to reassure, but stops when he notices Tom’s eyes locked on his own callused hand, blood from the day still crusted darkly under his fingernails, smeared in filthy smudges across his skin.

Tom takes a step back.

“It’s okay,” Ethan says. “I’m all dirty from everything that happened today, too.”

Tom’s eyes snap to Ethan like what he said is absurd. Like he can’t imagine Ethan ever being as filthy as he is.

Ethan chuckles softly at that. “Really, it’s okay.”

Taken aback again, Tom shakes his head.

With that, Tom turns away, skulking across the basement and throwing open the curtain that sections off the other side of the room, disappearing behind it.

Before the curtain falls closed behind Tom, Ethan can see that his earlier suspicions were right—there’s definitely some sort of bedroom behind there. 

Tom lives down here.

Several quiet minutes pass, and then distantly, Ethan can hear the distinct sound of a shower spray somewhere on the other side of the basement where Tom disappeared to.

Ethan finds himself grinning at that. It’s absurd, but his chest swells with a mixture of pride and elation. He did it. His plan is working. He was right, he was right, he was right. Tom is fond of him. He’s getting under Tom’s skin, making the man self-conscious with his want to impress him.

Tom wants Ethan’s approval, doesn’t he? Wants the basic human decency Ethan’s been feeding him in small doses. Craves the approval he must be sorely lacking in his life.

Ethan was right.

This plan is going to work.


	9. Chapter 9

Ethan dozes off until Tom returns freshly showered. Tom’s clothes are changed; he’s now wearing an open, short-sleeved button-down shirt with nothing underneath. The fabric is threadbare and faded, patched in several places with the wrong color fabric and thread. The jeans are just as worn, denim faded across his thick thighs, fraying to barely held together threads around the knees. 

If these people don’t get out much, Tom must not get new clothes very often. If ever. Ethan hates himself for thinking that Tom is so tall and muscular that he must not be able to pilfer many outfits off of the men he kills. Even Jed, who is a massive man by Ethan’s standards, doesn’t come close to matching Tom’s bulk.

Ethan’s gaze passes down Tom’s exposed stomach through his open shirt—it’s all hard muscle leading down to sharp hip bones jutting out and disappearing beneath the hem of his jeans.

Ethan swallows. Averts his eyes.

The denim fits Tom’s thighs like a second skin. Hugs his hips dangerously low. The image is seared into Ethan’s mind even with his eyes closed. He has the overwhelming urge to get on his knees, press his lips to those thighs. Wrap his arms around them. Peer up at Tom with a look so wanton it can only be interpreted as asking for permission.

It’s awful, this heat in his stomach.

It’s awful, because he can’t do any of those things—he’s chained up. Held captive. All but scheduled for death at this man’s hands.

What is wrong with him?

Ethan squeezes his eyes closed harder. Breathes deeply. Tries to dispel the guilt and shame that are no use to him here.

The plan will work. He can seduce Tom. Spare his own life. And if Ethan himself enjoys the seduction? 

...So what?

It will only make it easier to carry out his plan.

Ethan’s eyes snap open when he feels something bump against his arm.

Tom is standing before him again, in his hand is another clear plastic water bottle scrounged from Ethan’s luggage.

“Found some more,” Tom offers in explanation, twisting the cap off of the bottle.

Ethan’s so happy he could burst—because it’s working. It’s working. Tom is offering him this kindness on his own.

Ethan’s smile is full of relieved resolve that Tom is sure to translate as gratitude. When he tips his head back and opens his mouth, it feels like obedience. And when Tom’s lips quirk up on one side, just slightly, as he tips the water bottle against Ethan’s mouth—that… that feels like praise.

Ethan drinks half of the bottle before Tom sets it aside. “Thank you,” he says, and then, because he can’t help but push his luck, “Do you live down here? I heard a shower.”

Tom blinks slowly, and then, after several long seconds, nods.

Ethan laughs, and then, as innocently as possible, says, “I could definitely use a shower right about now. I’m sure it’s not pleasant, having to share a basement with someone who smells like gasoline and blood.”

It’s the stench of gasoline on his body that’s worse than the blood. It’s probably from being dragged all over the road today, beaten into the sun-washed asphalt by the bikers.

His own skin and clothes reek more strongly of gasoline than the full gas cans shoved under the stairs.

“Don’t mind,” Tom says, the subtle request going right over his head. And then, unexpectedly, adds, “Like the way you smell.”

Heat floods into Ethan’s face in waves. He’s sure his auburn hair looks even redder against the red flush spreading across his cheeks.

“W-well,” he stutters, floundering. What can he possibly say to that? “I’m sure I’d smell better after a shower. Less like blood and more like… me.”

Tom grunts, as if Ethan’s desperate, babbling attempt at gaining another freedom makes any sense at all. 

“I understand if you don’t want to let me use your shower,” Ethan says. “But it would make me feel better. Showers always do after long days.”

Tom shifts his weight. Crosses his arms. Doesn’t reply. Something in his face hardens.

Maybe Ethan is pushing too hard—but he has to. He has to push. He has no idea how much time he has left.

“You don’t have to untie me or anything, but I might need your help washing myself,” Ethan says, slow and innocent. His cock twitches in his pants, half hard now. Because that was certainly a proposition, and despite how awkward it may have been, threads of excitement shoot through Ethan’s body at the unexplored territory. He’s… he’s never done anything like this before.

He’s never even had a first kiss.

Has Tom?

Just the thought of Tom’s hands scrubbing him clean in the shower is enough to make Ethan hard.

It’s inherently illicit, the way Ethan intentionally worries his lower lip with his teeth, tongue darting out to swipe at his split lip when Tom’s gaze locks on his mouth. It feels coercive, the way he flashes his eyes up to Tom’s and catches his gaze.

It is coercive.

It is an obvious attempt at seduction aimed at an easy target—because as intimidating as Tom is, he doesn’t seem at all experienced in this area. It’s like he doesn’t even understand his own body’s natural reactions to Ethan’s flirtation. Like he’s spent his whole life suppressing his sexuality.

That shouldn’t turn Ethan on more—but it does. It does.

Tom’s pupils dilate, his nostrils flare as his breath quickens. His expression darkens to one of accusation and hunger. Almost like he’s angry at himself for his own lack of control.

Somehow, Ethan manages not to flinch when Tom reaches around him in a flash to pull hastily at his bindings.

He’s—he’s untying him.

Ethan’s heart pounds, his face centimeters from the bare skin of Tom’s chest as he looms over him.

Tom’s breath is escalated, overwhelmingly audible at this proximity, even over Ethan’s own pulse filling his ears.

Something is happening—something important. Ethan’s efforts are causing Tom to untie him. Ethan’s about to find out whether or not his plan worked. Is all the coyness going to cause Tom to throw him on the ground and fuck him, only to kill him later? Is Tom going to let him go? Or did the feeble attempt at seduction simply anger the man, prompt him to kill Ethan faster?

The chains come undone, the rope loosens and falls away. Ethan braces himself. Now that he’s pushed Tom to this point, he’s not sure he’s ready to see the results.

For the first time, Ethan considers that he may have just created a scenario where he becomes a victim of sexual assault before murder. Won’t that be a worse death, to have his body used before he’s killed? Won’t that be a more humiliating, devastating death?

Maybe Ethan should have just accepted his fate. Just allowed himself to be killed without the added trauma of sexual assault first. Ethan’s willing to use sex, his body, as power over Tom, a way to manipulate him—but only if it results in Ethan making it out of this alive…

Ethan barely has a moment to register that his hands are free before Tom hoists him off the table and lifts him bridal style in his arms. It’s definitely not the violent, carnal sex Ethan feared—Tom doesn’t toss him to the ground. Instead, he holds Ethan close and pads barefoot across the cold basement concrete and past the curtain that leads to the other side of the room.

Ethan was right—it’s a cramped, makeshift bedroom behind the curtain.

Cinder block walls, concrete floor, exposed light fixtures. Just like the rest of the basement. The bed is small, twin-sized, on a rickety wooden frame. The mattress is bare and stained, springs pushing through at one corner. Ethan can’t imagine how a man of Tom’s size sleeps on a bed that small. The size of the bed alone reads as neglect. 

Is Tom neglecting himself, or is he not allowed to make decisions about his living conditions?

The small room has nothing in the way of personal effects besides an array of knives of all shapes and sizes displayed on the wall. A collection. The rest of the room contains a broken dresser and piles of clothes haphazardly thrown on the floor, in need of washing.

Ethan’s breath hitches when Tom steps near the bed—but to his surprise Tom walks straight past it, to the back of the room, where a creaky door leads to a small bathroom.

The shower.

Of course.

Tom is just… doing as Ethan asked. Letting him shower.

Right.

Ethan’s apprehension drains. He has the upper hand. So far, Tom has done everything Ethan has asked, other than letting him go—and that feels like power. A shameful rush of lust shoots through Ethan at the control he has over Tom right now. The power that comes with being wanted. An object of desire.

Good. 

Ethan won’t let himself be something Tom can just slaughter and throw in the freezer to forget about.

He’ll make himself something Tom cares about too much to ever want to lose.

He’ll make it out of this alive.

Tom sets him down on the floor in front of the shower, reaching around him into the stall. The faucet squeaks, and the spray bursts from the rusted shower head to pelt the shower floor.

It’s not a tub, but a standing shower, a small stall like in a gym locker room. Ethan sways in place, legs wobbly with the effort it takes to keep himself standing. He hadn’t realized how exhausted he is. 

“Should I… take my clothes off? Or leave them on?” Ethan asks, embarrassment anything but feigned. It’s a ridiculous question. Of course he should take his clothes off.

“Don’t care,” Tom grunts, stepping back now that the shower is running. He’s standing between Ethan and the door. Ethan couldn’t make a run for it even if he wanted to. And of course Tom isn’t going to leave Ethan alone, unbound as he is. Not that it would make a difference—there are no windows in this room, either.

With shaky fingers, Ethan pulls his T-shirt over his head. His resolve to seduce his way to freedom crumbles now that it’s actually time to perform. He can’t do it. Can’t make taking off his clothes sexy right now. Can’t pretend his body isn’t bruised and aching, that just the act of reaching over his head to take his shirt off doesn’t make him flinch.

Ethan drops his shirt on the floor. He can’t help but take a moment to look at his own skin, assess the damage the biker’s beating caused. There’s an angry purple bruise splotching one side of his ribs. It’s sore to the touch—he hisses when his own fingers brush it. His right hip is scraped and caked in dried blood from being ground into the asphalt during the beating.

Ethan remembers Tom, watching him at arm’s length. He looks up at the man. “Thank you. Again. For saving me. This would have been much worse.” He gestures at the bruising splattered across his abdomen. 

As absurd as it is, Ethan means every word. An aching longing fills him because he really does see what Tom did as a kindness. He has seen that Tom can be kind. He needs Tom to see it too before it’s too late.

Tom says nothing. He’s as blank and stoic as if he’s simply a security guard keeping watch over a prisoner. 

Ethan is a prisoner.

Ethan takes a deep breath and unbuttons his pants, kicking them off along with his shoes to reveal more bruising down his thighs and shins. When he slips off his socks, he’s left standing before Tom in only his boxer briefs. Sharply, Ethan turns around. He curses himself for wasting this opportunity to seduce the other man. But he can’t do it. It’s too disingenuous. Ethan can’t pretend he’s not shy and vulnerable right now.

He slips his underwear off and steps into the shower, his back to Tom the whole time. He can’t let Tom see the signs of his growing arousal between his legs.

The shower spray stings—and then soothes. It’s warm, and Ethan groans at the relief that crashes through his body at the familiar, comforting sensation of the water. He closes his eyes and tilts his face towards the spray, sighing at how good it feels.

Several minutes pass in silence. Ethan can practically feel Tom’s gaze burning into him. 

He doesn’t want to push his luck by lingering in the shower too long.

“Do you, uh, have soap?” Ethan asks Tom, glancing at him over his shoulder. This is a mistake—because Ethan can’t help his eyes from flitting down to Tom’s crotch, where an obvious erection is bulging down one leg of his jeans. Ethan quickly averts his gaze, his own cock twitching in interest. Fuck. He’s almost painfully aroused now.

Tom reaches into the cupboard above the sink and comes up with a clean washcloth and a bar of soap.

Ethan holds out his hand to take them, but Tom doesn’t budge.

“Do you—do you want to do it?” Ethan asks, hesitantly. “Wash me?”

Tom seems to take that as an invitation, because he steps forward, reaching into the shower and pressing the soapy cloth to Ethan’s neck. The next thing Ethan knows he’s being scrubbed roughly across the upper back, so forcefully that his body has to be held still by Tom’s massive hand gripping his shoulder.

Despite the roughness, the cloth scrubbing across his back feels good—Ethan’s never had this kind of attention before. Why does it feel so much better than if he was scrubbing himself?

Tom manhandles him, grabbing his arm and jerking it up to wash beneath it.

Ethan squeaks involuntarily at this, and then laughs. 

“Sorry,” he says, “tickles.”

Tom grunts as if in apology and makes an attempt at being gentler with the next arm.

Even when Tom scrubs lower, towards the small of Ethan’s back and over his hips, his movements are anything but gentle—like washing a dog or a car. Ethan wonders if this man has ever had to learn how to be gentle.

Tom stops, suddenly, not making any attempt to clean below Ethan’s waist. 

Gruffly, he says, “Turn.”

As with everything Tom says, it’s such a firm command that Ethan obliges before he can really consider the repercussions.

Tom immediately begins washing him across his chest, and Ethan can’t help but stare at the way the water and soap bubbles drip down Tom’s strong arms.

And then suddenly, like a slamming of breaks, Tom stops.

He double takes.

He’s staring, wide and serious, right between Ethan’s legs, where his full erection bobs guiltily in a nest of auburn curls.

Shit.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Ethan blurts, reaching down to cover his shame as best he can with his hands.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What happened to attempting to seduce the guy?

Who is Ethan kidding—he’s much too awkward for that.

Tom’s gaze snaps up to Ethan’s flushed face accusingly. “Get rid of it.”

“Uh,” Ethan says, helplessly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It will go away, I swear. Just ignore it.”

Tom hums in frustration, dropping the soap and washcloth to the floor and taking a step away from the shower.

Confused and humiliated, Ethan stands there like an idiot, shielding his erection badly with his hands. He moves to turn away and Tom’s hand shoots back in the shower to halt him.

“No,” Tom growls. “Get rid of it.”

It’s then that Ethan notices the red flush creeping up Tom’s neck under his open shirt collar.

Does… does Tom mean for him to get rid of his erection by _masturbating?_ _In_ _front of him?_  
_  
_A flash of panic shoots through Ethan—he can’t do that. He’s never done anything like that. Not with someone else watching. 

But.

Isn’t this what Ethan wanted? Isn’t this the plan? To make himself valuable to his captor, regardless of the expense? And isn’t his own arousal flaring tenfold now, pooling in his groin and flooding his whole body with an insatiable urge?

In the end, it’s the way Tom asked it of him that manages to calm Ethan down.  
_  
Get rid of it._  
_  
_There’s something so sexually repressed about the way he said it. Like an erection is something dirty and shameful that needs to be hidden away before anyone notices.

“You want me to…” Ethan starts, carefully, steeling his nerves. He has to do this. Has to try. “take care of it?” 

He emphasizes his words by uncovering his erection and taking it in hand instead. He swears he can see the exact moment when Tom stops breathing.

“Is this what you meant, Tom?” Ethan reiterates, stroking his cock from base to tip and then back again. He doesn’t mean to say Tom’s name, he really doesn’t, not after it infuriated him last time. 

Tom’s face darkens and his breath picks up at double speed—but he doesn’t protest the use of his name, not this time.

And. He’s not stopping Ethan. Not objecting to Ethan jerking himself off in front of him under the shower spray. 

Ethan groans at the pleasure his own grip gives him as he twists his palm over the head. 

This man is dangerous. Frightening. He could easily overpower and kill Ethan on a whim. But right now, Ethan has his full attention. Tom’s captivated by him. It’s empowering.

The thought of having any influence over such a violent man only serves to send shudders of pleasure through Ethan in waves.

“Can I look at you?” Ethan asks, breathless, imploring Tom with honey-brown eyes. Wanting, needing Tom’s consent. “Can I look at you while I touch myself?”

Tom swallows visibly, taken aback.

At Tom’s lack of voluntary response, Ethan casts his eyes down to the water swirling the shower drain. The last thing he wants is to make Tom uncomfortable. And shit—he shouldn’t even care about Tom’s comfort of all things, after what the man’s done to him. 

Ethan almost startles when Tom lifts Ethan’s chin with his fingers, guiding Ethan’s gaze back onto him. The noise this elicits from Ethan is practically a purr.

Tom’s eyes rove over Ethan’s naked body as if unsure what part of Ethan he would most like to watch. Eventually, he steps backs, allows himself to focus on Ethan in his entirety.

Ethan’s panting now, hand no longer performing the slow, hesitant strokes it started with. He speeds his motions, his hips snapping forward to fuck his own fist. He manages to lock eyes with Tom and keep his gaze, body flooding with a blissful, swirling heat that keeps his fist pounding harder and harder down his cock. 

The skin of his palm slips effortlessly over his erection with the aid of the shower. It’s so, so good, and he wants Tom to see him. Wants Tom to look at his body—wants Tom to like what he sees. And—oh, Tom does, because the bulge of the man’s impossibly large erection is still straining at his jeans.

“I want to touch you,” Ethan blurts, self-control smothered by the weight of his arousal. “I want to touch you so bad, Tom, I think I’ve wanted to since I first saw you.”

It’s not even a lie.

Fuck, _it’s not even a lie._  
__  
The noise Tom makes in response—a low, guttural sound that Ethan can’t help but translate optimistically as desire—is too much for Ethan.

He doubles forward as his hips jerk erratically, his dick pulsing with relief as he spills his come into his own hand.

And—fuck.

What did he just do?

The high from his orgasm seems to dissipate as quickly as it hit him—and he’s left feeling numb and embarrassed and so much less bold than his arousal made him. An intense, sickly fog of malaise rushes in to replace any pleasure the orgasm brought.

Tom reaches forward and peels Ethan’s hand away from where it’s still cupping the head of his cock, his come filling his palm. 

Horrifically embarrassed, Ethan watches as Tom lifts his sticky hand to his mouth and licks. 

Oh. Oh.

Tom’s… licking Ethan’s hand clean. 

Enthusiastically. 

And all Ethan can think about is wanting that warm, thick tongue on his cock next time, instead. 

Tom has to loom so low over Ethan to lap at his hand—in any other circumstance Tom would look akin to a prince bowing in a fairytale greeting; lips brushing knuckles. But this—this is anything but innocent.

And god—Ethan should not be so enamored by this man lapping up his come, not when Ethan highly suspects this man and his family may very well be cannibals.

“Thank you,” Ethan manages, dazed. “For cleaning me up.”

He doesn’t mean it to be a double entendre—really, he doesn’t, but the double meaning seems to go over Tom’s head, anyway.

“Can I take care of you, too?” Ethan asks, voice small, eyes flicking pointedly down to the bulge straining Tom’s pants.

The face Tom makes in response to Ethan’s proposition is one of utter disgust. Outright refusal. It’s enough of a rejection that Ethan feels struck by a wave of shame for daring to ask.

What’s wrong? Is it sexual repression in general that makes Tom recoil at the thought of being touched by him—or is it because Ethan is another man?

Ethan drops his face again in shame—but he’s quickly intercepted by Tom.

Tom reaches out and touches Ethan’s face with both hands, swiping at the ribbons of shower water flowing down his cheeks.

Ethan’s sure his face is burning a deep red. He’s sure Tom can feel his pulse pounding like a crazed, caged animal through his ribs when he returns to washing Ethan with the discarded bar of soap and his own bare hands.

As… as if nothing happened.

As if Ethan hadn’t just jerked off right in front of him.

As if Ethan’s orgasm hadn’t belonged to him.

But it had been possessive—hadn’t it? The way Tom licked Ethan’s come from his hand. As if he knew the orgasm was for him. Because of him.

As Tom’s hands wash over his torso in soothing circles, Ethan closes his eyes and allows himself to relax for the first time in what feels like forever.

Tom’s still forceful, like he doesn’t know his own strength, but the expression on his face is that of concentration. Like this task is important to him. He doesn’t end up washing below Ethan’s waist—which strikes Ethan as almost funny. The man was willing to lap Ethan’s come into his mouth, but he’s hesitant to touch Ethan below the waist, even to wash him. 

Ethan has no idea what to make of that.

Has no idea what to make of Tom.

When the last of the soap suds slip down his body and swirl down the drain, Tom shuts off the water.

Ethan stands there with the air cooling his skin as Tom produces a towel from the cabinet and roughly dries him.

It’s almost comforting, to be taken care of so domestically.

Ethan wishes he could trust that comfort.

Wishes he could trust Tom, now, after something so intimate. 

But he can’t.

Tom allows him to dress in new clothes from his luggage and then chains him right back up next to Jed.


	10. Chapter 10

Ethan expected to be chained up again, but it still feels like a betrayal. 

He manages a small, sad smile at Tom, who is much gentler with the ropes than he was the first time. At least Ethan thinks his wrists aren’t bound nearly as tight as they were before.

Maybe he’s delusional.

No, scratch that—he is definitely delusional, to have done what he did in the shower. To have enjoyed it. To have been able to reach orgasm at all under his captor’s scrutiny.

The worst part about being returned to his chains, however, is that Jed is awake next to him. The man’s bushy eyebrows knit in accusation, his eyes narrowed at Ethan’s damp hair.

Perhaps more revealing than Ethan’s damp hair and clean skin, is the blatant lack of trauma in his features. What does Jed assume happened, in the room behind the curtain?

Did he wake up with Ethan gone and think Ethan was dead?

When Tom brought Ethan back out, did Jed assume Ethan had been abused sexually?

That must be it.

But Ethan doesn’t look like a victim right now, smiling as sweet as he can at Tom. It’s a difficult task when his heart is so heavy.

It’s humiliating that Jed is bearing witness to this. To Ethan’s depraved attempt at survival.

From the look on Jed’s face alone, Ethan can tell that he’s thinking he would never stoop so low as to perform sexual favors for his captor and then thank him afterwards with a smile.

But Jed’s wrong—it isn’t like that.

Tom didn’t… didn’t use him.

Tom didn’t even get off.

He just… 

He…

Ethan doesn’t know.

He doesn’t fucking know what that was, or why he managed to enjoy it—or why he’s defending Tom in his own head right now.

Fuck.

After Tom checks that the chains are secure with a quick tug, he holds Ethan’s gaze with a stony expression for only a moment before he abandons Ethan for the freezer.

The freezer latch opens and the door is lifted with a pop of suction. Ethan’s heart drops as he watches Tom collect two recently packaged bundles of meat—_bundles of Ricky_—out of the freezer and trudge up basement stairs. Out of sight without another word. The distinct sound of a door closing and locking sounds from the top of the stairs.

Ethan immediately recognizes Tom’s heavy footfalls on the floor overhead, making his way through the house above.

Worse than the beating—worse than the entire day—hell, worse than even the disgusted way Jed is glaring at him right now—is the smell of frying meat that wafts from upstairs a handful of minutes later.

Ethan closes his eyes tight. He curls up on himself as much as his chains will allow. And tries very hard not to think about the smell of cooking and the active bustling of several pairs of footsteps.

He doesn’t want to know what it means.

The first thing that Ethan notices when he wakes up is that his luggage is gone—it’s no longer piled haphazardly amongst the existing clutter of the basement. Panic washes over him in waves. What does that mean? Does it mean anything at all? Why is the absence of something as unimportant as his luggage sending his heart pounding in fear?

It’s silly.

But.

That luggage—his clothes, his snacks, his things… they were the last of the outside world that he had with him.

What did Tom do with them?

Dispose of them?

Is he planning to do the same to Ethan?

Horribly, Ethan is comforted by the sound of Jed snoring beside him. If Jed is alive, then Ethan still has time. Tom won’t kill Ethan before Jed. Ethan’s sure of that. Jed will be first. As long as Jed is alive, Ethan will be too.

It’s an awful, intrusive sort of comfort and Ethan tries not to hate himself for it.

Time moves sluggishly forward, slowed further by his discomfort, his apprehension. How long has he been in this basement? At least overnight. Probably not a full twenty-four hours yet. But how could he possibly know, with no windows to gather a sense of daylight?

Hours pass before Tom returns to the basement, heavy steps familiar down the old wooden stairs.

An intrusive sense of relief flows through Ethan at the sight of Tom. He can remember the look on Tom’s face last night in the bathroom, the flush spreading over his chest and crawling up his neck before it ever reached his face. 

It shouldn’t be a pleasant memory.

Ethan shouldn’t be teetering on the verge of being happy to see this man.

“Tom,” Ethan breathes, smiling when Tom approaches. He thinks he’s allowed, now, to say Tom’s name. Tom didn’t stop him last night, and he’s not stopping him now, either. Not even a frown. Ethan plans to abuse this privilege. “It’s good to see you.”

Tom’s busy staring at Ethan’s hair for some reason.

“Oh,” Ethan realizes, knowing without having to see it. “My hair is curlier today, huh? Yeah, it does that when I don’t brush it after it gets wet.”

Tom’s face seems to soften just slightly.

“You can touch it if you want,” Ethan invites, scooting forward on the table.

Hesitantly, as if afraid a simple touch will break him, Tom lifts a hand to twist a finger around one of Ethan’s curls.

Ethan leans into the touch until he’s nuzzling his head against Tom’s hand. He’s on autopilot. Letting his instincts take the wheel. Doing what feels right.

It shouldn’t feel right, it shouldn’t feel right.

In a shy hush, Ethan says, “I liked what we did yesterday.”

He hates to find that he means it a little. More than a little. Too much.

Tom’s only response is a choked noise as he shifts his fingers in Ethan’s hair and pets him outright. The touch sends a gush of sparks down Ethan’s spine.

“Did you sleep well?” Ethan asks, because his need to keep conversation flowing through awkward silence is something that existed well before he ever wound up in this basement.

Tom grunts in surprise. Shrugs one heavy shoulder.

Ethan hums in acknowledgement, struggling to think of some way not to let Tom’s minimal responses shut down communication entirely.

“You?” Tom asks.

“Me?”

“Yeah,” Tom confirms. “Sleep well?”

“Oh,” Ethan’s heart shouldn’t speed at Tom’s attempt to continue the conversation. But Tom has been so withdrawn so far—every word that Ethan’s managed to get out of him feels strained, ripped out like loose teeth that aren’t quite ready yet. “Uh—”

Tom untangles his hand from Ethan’s hair. Waits for an answer.

“Well, not really. It’s kinda hard to get comfortable with… the chains and the table and…” Ethan jerks his head towards Jed in explanation. “But it was okay.”

Nothing about being held captive and forced to sleep in chains next to a man who beat him is okay. But. A little dishonesty is fine. Polite, even. Yeah. He’s just being polite. Not… not manipulating Tom. Not like he’d initially planned. 

He’s not—he can’t… he can’t think about why it bothers him to register that eventually Tom might realize Ethan’s been lying to him. Small lies. Sprinkled throughout their interactions. All he knows is that he’s not frightened that Tom will be angry or violent when he realizes—no, he’s afraid that Tom will be _hurt_. And that terrifies him.

What is wrong with him?

“Bed’s not comfortable either,” Tom says, and it’s a long enough sentence that for the first time Ethan can actually get a good sense of the sound of his voice—deep and toneless. “But better than this.” Tom gestures at the table beneath Ethan.

Ethan laughs. “Yeah, I would have rather been in bed with you.” The words are out before he can stop them—and the only thing that quells his embarrassment at having let that particular sentiment slip through is the realization that this is exactly the kind of thing he should be saying if he’s following his own plan.

Tom’s response is his usual predatory stare that reveals no inkling of what’s going on in his head.

“But judging by the size of the mattress I saw, I doubt I’d fit,” Ethan adds, glad his nerves don’t bleed too much into his voice. 

Tom snorts. “Could probably fit,” he says, thoughtful, as close to amusement as Ethan’s ever heard him.

“Do you… uh,” Ethan starts, licking his lips. “Do you want to see if I fit? If—uh, we fit… together?”

Shit.

That veiled proposition is even more awkward than the ones he attempted last night.

“Still tired?” Tom asks. There’s no sign of teasing. Did the implication really go over his head, or has he just been messing with Ethan this whole time?

Maybe the innocent sheltered hick act is all a lie.

Maybe Tom is manipulating him.

No—Ethan really doesn’t think so. Tom’s had plenty of opportunity to take advantage of Ethan, if that’s what he wanted. Deception would be pointless.

Ethan tilts his head. Studies Tom. Faintly, if Ethan looks close enough, he thinks he sees traces of nervousness in the man’s stony face. 

And somehow—Ethan understands.

Tom isn’t as clueless as he’s making himself out to be. Not at all. But he needs these excuses. Needs justifications. Needs to pretend what’s happening between them is anything but what it is.

Why?

Is he afraid to admit to himself that he wants this?

Why does that scare Tom? Because his budding fondness for Ethan complicates the fact that Ethan’s supposed to end up dead and stored in his freezer? Or is it just the fact that he’s attracted to another man? It could be anything. It could be that Tom’s afraid of what his family will do to him if they find out what he’s been getting up to with their captive.

It’s probably bad, really bad, that Ethan can’t think of a single sinister reason why Tom is so hesitant about Ethan’s flirtations. 

Why can’t he manage to paint Tom in a bad light? It should be easy. 

Ethan smiles softly, a fragile, budding garden of feelings sprouting vulnerably and uninvited inside him for this man. 

“Yeah,” Ethan answers finally. “I could use a nap.”

That’s all Ethan needs to say. Tom manages to untie him without waking Jed. Ethan’s pretty sure Jed has a concussion, with the way he passes out cold and unresponsive. The man probably needs a hospital. Ethan hates himself more for worrying about Jed than he does for sympathizing with Tom. He doesn’t know what that says about him.

Tom offers Ethan a hand and helps him hop down from the table. The concrete floor is frigid on his bare feet, making Ethan long for the sweltering heat outside—what he wouldn’t give to curl up in the field beyond the farmhouse and let the sun warm his limbs.

Tom’s hand squeezes around his when he stumbles slightly, his legs haven’t been steady since the beating, his muscles sore like they are after a brutal hike. Tom’s hand is warm and so, so much bigger than Ethan’s. The pads of his fingers are rough, calloused from manual labor in a way Ethan’s have never been. 

Ethan’s disappointed when Tom lets go of his hand and nods towards the curtain. Obediently, Ethan pads through the basement and past the curtain, into Tom’s tiny, desolate bedroom.

The first thing Ethan notices is his luggage. Tom moved it into this part of the basement. Why? The zippers are torn open, the contents rummaged through. Ethan tears his eyes away from it, not wanting to give any indication that the sight might bother him.

Does it? He’s not sure.

One red T-shirt that is unmistakably Ethan’s is lying crumpled on Tom’s bed.

Ethan stares outright.

Tom says nothing.

What does that mean? It strikes Ethan as an embarrassingly innocent thing, his T-shirt in Tom’s bed. A symbol of comfort, a reminder.

They scarcely know each other. And yet, there’s already a spark of obsession hiding in the details.

Ethan’s heart races as quick as his thoughts.

Elation.

That’s what he feels.

Relief.

Because—because, he’s been obsessed with Tom, too. He’s not alone in the illicit, forbidden obsession. He’s not the only one who is fucked up in that particular department.

Fuck.

The whole situation is fucked. Every single thing about it.

“Can I?” Ethan asks, nodding towards the bed.

“Yes,” Tom says, and Ethan thinks it’s a good sign that he’s giving most of his answers verbally now, even if he’s still only managing a few words at a time.

Ethan takes the invitation, crawling onto the worn mattress and curling up to one side. At least if he tucks his legs up his feet don’t hang off the end—he doubts Tom can manage the same.

He looks up at Tom, who is hovering across the room. “Am I keeping you from something?”

“No,” Tom answers, too quickly. He’s staring at the way Ethan’s rubbing the rope burn on his wrists. “Wrists hurt?”

“A little,” Ethan admits. “But I understand why you have to tie me up.”

Tom’s eyes harden a little. There it is, the lack of trust. The blatant doubt of Ethan’s sincerity.

It’s almost funny that Tom has an easier time believing Ethan’s flirtation.

“I’m a stranger,” Ethan says. “You and your family can’t trust me.”

Tom’s doubt falters in the slight softening of his expression. He shifts uncomfortably.

“You can tie me to the bed if you want,” Ethan jokes, stretching and yawning—his shirt hiking up his stomach in the process. He doesn’t miss Tom’s shift of interest.

“Not worried,” Tom says dismissively. “Stronger than you.”

“I noticed,” Ethan grins, and then laughs at Tom’s rapid blink of surprise. “So, what, you just plan on watching me sleep then?”

Tom shrugs. Looks away.

“You can come over here with me,” Ethan says, oddly bolstered. It’s a rush, being able to lead a man like Tom by the reins. It’s an illusion of control. Maybe it’s actual control.

Tom hesitates and then moves to stand at the edge of the bed. Plants himself there like a child curling his toes around the edge of the deep end of a swimming pool. He stares down at Ethan, as if at the depths of what getting into bed with him means.

Ethan reaches out, beckons him forward, a silent promise to catch him, keep him afloat. An invitation that promises that everything will be okay. 

Tom allows Ethan to grab him by the arm, tug him down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Lie down with me,” Ethan prompts, exhilaration pounding through his thickly beating pulse. Tom is disgruntled and compliant—he has all the vulnerability of a weathered statue, strong lines chiseled out of stronger material, but worn down by the persistence of time.

A lack of intimacy has weighed on Tom for a long time. Ethan can see it in his reluctance. Like a dog holding itself back from a bone, beaten too many times to trust its own urge to lunge forward.

Ethan’s been lonely, too, inexperienced as he is with romantic intimacy. But unlike Tom, Ethan’s had platonic intimacy in his life. Friends and family. If Ethan’s suspicions are correct, Tom is completely isolated out here on his family’s farm. Verbally and physically abused by the only human connections he has.

“Tom,” Ethan tries again, patting the other half of the mattress.

Tom relents, lowers himself down on the mattress next to Ethan, facing him. His large body consumes what little space is left on the mattress, leaving only centimeters between his face and Ethan’s. Their legs touch. Tom’s arm is caught between the bed and Ethan’s stomach. Ethan’s sure Tom’s legs are hanging off the edge of the bed. 

But they fit. Somehow. 

He’s so close to Tom. Without permission, memories of the first time Ethan saw Tom flash through his mind: A chainsaw’s roar and the color red. Tom looming behind the mangled, dying biker. Tom’s strong arms dripping with the blood of another man. Tom’s blank expression as he moved to bring the chainsaw down on Ethan, too.

It would be so easy for Tom to kill Ethan right now. To abuse him. To take whatever he wanted and then dispose of Ethan like spoiled meat.

Ethan’s breath quickens. From the fear or the proximity, he doesn’t know.

What he does know is that a pulsing thread of excitement lingers behind the apprehension.

It’s quiet, apart from their breath. Quiet in the house above them. None of the usual periodic footsteps indicative of the family living upstairs. 

Ethan swears he can feel the heat coming off of Tom’s body. Tom’s shirt is buttoned today, a disappointment that is also a blessing because Ethan doesn’t know if he’d be able to resist touching the man’s chest right now if it wasn’t. And goodness only knows how unstable Tom’s reaction might be to that. 

Ethan searches Tom’s face. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“Okay.”

It’s not exactly a _yes _but it will do. “Have you always lived out here? In this house?”

Tom nods. “On this property.”

“What do you mean?”

Tom frowns. Takes a breath before answering. “Used to sleep in the barn, with the sheep,” he pauses, then adds, “Liked the sheep. Still do. Don’t have them anymore.”

“How old were you when you slept in the barn?”

Tom’s eyebrows knit slightly, like he’s not sure why Ethan’s asking. “Small. Like Daisy.”

Small like the little girl who can’t be more than eight years old? Small like the little girl whose family instructed her to kill a man like it was nothing?

They made Tom sleep out in the barn with the farm animals when he was that young?

Ethan suspected long-term abuse, how could he not have? But the confirmation still makes his stomach drop.

“Why?” Ethan asks, the same disgust and sadness pooling in his chest that he felt when he begged Tom’s family not to let Daisy witness the murder of the biker, much less make the child kill him. 

“Deserved it,” Tom answers blankly.

Ethan can’t keep his eyes from burning hot with the beginnings of tears. “How could a child have ever deserved to be kept in the barn like an animal?”

Tom stares at him as if he doesn’t understand the question.

“Tom, no child deserves that kind of treatment.” For once, Ethan doesn’t feel guilty for his sympathy for the other man. Tom’s past absolutely doesn’t excuse the violence and murder he commits in his adulthood, but it doesn’t mean Tom’s past abuse was ever warranted, either.

Tom’s expression is blanker than ever. He’s never experienced any sort of sympathy for what he’s gone through in his life, has he? He has no basis for comparison to know that his life is far from typical. 

How can Ethan possibly reach someone like that?

“That must have been lonely,” Ethan says, finally. It doesn’t feel like enough. He can’t think of anything to say that would. The tears he’s been holding back blur his vision now, pooling on the edges of his eyelids. When he blinks, they fall sideways down his face. Before Ethan can wipe them away, Tom does.

Tom’s expression twists in confused concern now, the pad of his thumb brushing across the trails of Ethan’s tears.

More tears come.

Because—because… damn it, why is Tom’s face so concerned right now at the sight of Ethan’s pain, when the only emotion Tom seems to harbor for his own pain is stoic acceptance?

It isn’t right. It isn’t right.

Ethan manages a few deep breaths, staunching his tears with his palms pressed into his closed eyes. He gathers himself, because this is ridiculous. He’s being ridiculous. He can’t let his sympathy for his perpetrator overwhelm him like this. He’s barely been able to cope with his own feelings in the last twenty-four hours. He’s in no shape to try to bear the weight of someone else’s pain.

But of course, Tom isn’t asking him to. It’s like Tom doesn’t even know that he should be pained by what he’s gone through with his family’s abuse. The few details Ethan’s managed to gather or witness for himself are enough to cause lifelong trauma, but Tom almost seems to roll it off his shoulders.

He hasn’t, though, has he? The trauma is there, affecting him in ways he’s unlikely to connect directly to the abuse. 

Ethan’s seen that trauma in Tom’s odd hesitance, in how long it took him to open up to Ethan enough to do more than grunt or nod a response. He’s seen it in the anger, when Ethan asked to take care of his erection after his own orgasm. There’s a resistance to intimacy, a craving, like he wants it so bad but is sure he’ll get hurt for even thinking he could have it.

“What, uh, what happened to the sheep?” Ethan asks, pulling his hands away from his damp eyes and trying to smile, to lighten the mood, change the subject, anything that’ll keep him from crying again.

Tom hesitates, then answers, “Got sick. Died. One after the other.”

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says quietly. “You said you liked them?”

Tom shrugs. Nods. “Took care of them.”

The conversation is simple, but Tom seems enraptured, content just lying here and answering Ethan’s questions. There’s an eerie normalcy to it that almost makes Ethan forget where he is, what kind of man he’s talking to. The power that man has over him.

Right now, lying face to face in bed together and talking in hushed voices, Ethan feels like an equal.

“So you like animals?” Ethan asks. It’s a good sign, he thinks, that Tom seems to have cared about the sheep on his farm. 

Tom grunts, surprised by the question. Eventually he nods. “They like me.”

“What other sorts of things do you like?”

“I like you,” Tom says, straightforward and matter-of-fact. No trace of embarrassment.

Ethan’s face heats. “No, I mean, like, what kind of interests do you have?”

Tom’s gaze drops in thought. It’s several moments before he answers. “Building things. Fixing things. Caring for the animals we still got.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder with a tilt of his head, towards the wall adorned with his collection of knives. “The knives, too. Like those a lot.”

Ethan wants to ask him further about the collection of knives mounted to the wall. The question sticks on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it. He shouldn’t touch that topic with a ten-foot pole. 

“What about you?” Tom asks. 

“Me?”

“Yeah. Things you like.”

Something about the question—Tom’s desire to know—feels more intimate than masturbating in front of the man in the shower. 

“Uh. I like people. I like talking to them. I was—er, am, going to college for psychology.”

Tom grunts in acknowledgement. Ethan isn’t sure if a sheltered person like Tom would really know what psychology or even college is.

Ethan adds, “I like spending time outdoors. Hiking. Traveling to rural areas. That’s what I was doing before you—when, uh, we met. I was traveling around to enjoy seeing places I’ve never been before.”

Tom hums thoughtfully this time, as if that makes more sense to him.

It’s then Ethan realizes he didn’t mirror Tom’s answer about liking him. The afterthought startles him. He should be doing all he can to endear Tom to him, there’s no reason not to include Tom in the list of things he likes. 

Except… Ethan finds the words difficult to say. It’s the honesty of it, he thinks, that’s catching the words in his throat. 

He _does _like Tom. 

He shouldn’t, but he does. 

And the honesty makes the words difficult.

“And,” Ethan says, scarcely above a whisper, “I like you, too.”

There’s a flash of something unreadable in Tom’s eyes. It’s magnetic. Tom is magnetic. Ethan’s been mesmerized by him since the moment he first saw him. Chainsaw and all.

Ethan leans forward as if drawn by gravity, the dangerous pull of desire and impulse. He brushes his nose against Tom’s, nuzzling. Impossibly, he manages to stop long enough to ask, “Can I kiss you?”

Tom makes a low, rough noise in the back of his throat. He nods.

“Say it,” Ethan whispers. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” Tom says, rough and sure. 

The certainty there, the swiftness with which Tom obeyed Ethan’s demand for verbal consent—it sends a rush of exhilaration through Ethan’s body. He bucks forward automatically, body pressing into Tom.

“Can I touch you?” Ethan asks, breathless and too late, because his hand is already fisting in Tom’s shirt, legs pressing insistently until they’re tangled with Tom’s legs.

“Yes,” Tom answers, strained this time. “Can I…?”

Ethan doesn’t know what exactly Tom’s asking for, but it doesn’t matter, the answer bubbles out of him before Tom can find the words. “Yes. Anything.”

It’s dangerous permission to give this man, given the circumstances. But the noise Tom makes in response is the most delicious, pained noise, and Ethan can’t bring himself to regret anything right now.

Tom’s palm immediately finds Ethan’s hip, strong fingers gripping hard as Ethan bucks his hips forward under the touch.

Fuck, he’s hard and he wants Tom to know it. There’s no way Tom can miss the swollen length of Ethan’s shaft pressing against him as Ethan mashes his body forward against him. 

Tom growls in the most deliciously frustrated way. “Do what you asked,” he says, gruffly, almost accusing.

“What?” Ethan asks, brain foggy with arousal. And then, “Oh. Kiss you?”

“Yeah.” Tom’s grip tightens on Ethan’s hip, pulling his hips closer, guiding them to rock against his body. 

Ethan wants to lunge forward and take Tom’s mouth against his own right now—but…

“I’ve never…” Ethan breathes, embarrassment catching the rest of the sentence before he has the courage to spit it out.

“Never kissed?” Tom asks, and when Ethan manages a nod, says, “we’re the same.”

We’re the same. 

We’re the same.

Something about that makes Ethan’s skin flush hotter.

Except—except, they’re not the same at all. Tom’s heavily sheltered. Repressed. Ethan is neither of those things. 

“I’ve never done anything like this,” Ethan says, shuddering under the overwhelming sensations. Tom’s hand on his waist. Tom’s body next to his. His hips rocking his clothed erection forward, forward, forward against Tom’s stomach. “Except, except what we did yesterday. That was the first time I—with anyone, I—”

“Yeah,” Tom grunts. Suddenly, he’s sitting up, shifting his hand to Ethan’s shoulder and pushing Ethan down onto his back. “Me too.”

With that, Tom is looming over him, mouth crashing against Ethan’s with a clang of teeth that splits open Ethan’s lip again. The burst of pain mixes fluidly with the rush of arousal pulsing through Ethan’s whole body.

Ethan’s back arches off the bed. He whines helplessly against Tom’s mouth when his hips jerk forward only to meet air and not the wonderful friction of Tom’s body. 

Tom reaches down and cups Ethan’s groin, palm flat and firm against the bulge in Ethan’s pants. Ethan’s moan is high-pitched and shuddering, almost a scream muffled by Tom’s lips.

Tom’s lips—Tom’s lips—they’re soft and rough all at once, warm and inviting. Ethan had no idea kissing would feel this good. His senses explode with a scent that is unique to Tom, and Ethan can taste him before he ever opens his mouth. When he does open his mouth against Tom’s, their tongues find each other, move against each other. It’s the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Ethan’s moans are a steady purr into Tom’s mouth. Tom’s hand is pressing so hard against his clothed erection that he manages to pin Ethan’s squirming hips to the mattress. It’s all Ethan can do to fist his hands in Tom’s shirt and writhe helplessly beneath the man.

“Tom,” Ethan manages to pant between kisses, “Tom, Tom, Tom.”

Tom’s responding growl is the most beautiful, possessive noise Ethan has ever heard. 

“Fuck,” Ethan curses, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—Tom.”

He pulls away from the kiss to drag his teeth down Tom’s smooth jaw. Tom’s been clean-shaven since Ethan met him, not a trace of stubble. This feels like intimate knowledge, somehow, and Ethan thinks, through the haze of his arousal, that he’d kill to watch Tom methodically shaving in the morning. It seems like such an absurdly domestic thing, and—god, Ethan wants that. Wants to bear witness to this strange man performing the most mundane activities.

It’s Tom’s turn to groan when Ethan latches his mouth just below his jaw, sucking hard at the sensitive flesh at the junction of Tom’s neck.

“I love this,” Ethan says, saliva-slick lips against Tom’s wet neck. “I love doing this with you.”

Tom grunts in agreement and squeezes Ethan through his pants.

“Fuck,” Ethan practically yelps, arching hard against Tom’s hand.

Tom chuckles, thumb stroking the side of Ethan’s shaft, tracing the shape of the bulge.

Ethan’s brows knit in frustration, body growing hotter under the shock of Tom’s amusement. 

“How can,” Ethan breathes, struggling to form words, “How can you be so calm about this?”

Tom’s definitely not calm—his breath is heavy and his body is corded with tension. But compared to Ethan, writhing and moaning like a rutting animal, Tom is the picture of serenity.

Tom laughs again. “Self-restraint.”

Ethan grunts at that. Whines, “It isn’t fair.”

Tom’s grin is feral and full of sharp canines when he claims Ethan’s mouth again.

Ethan genuinely worries he might come in his pants.

The world snaps back into focuses when a crashing bang resounds from upstairs.

They both freeze.

A door slamming. 

Heavy footsteps stomping across the floor.

Tom’s expression flashes to fury, almost accusation. Fear? 

Ethan barely has time to process Tom untangling himself from Ethan and rushing to his feet. Ethan’s frozen, struggling for his thoughts to catch up with reality.

Tom doesn’t seem to have time to wait for Ethan to react—he grabs Ethan by the arm, grip hard enough to sting, and pulls him upright, dragging him off the bed until he stumbles onto shaky legs.

“Tom, what—”

Tom silences him with a hard look and drags him out of the bedroom area, through the curtain and before Ethan knows it, he’s being lifted back up onto the table next to Jed.

Just in the time for the basement door to slam open.

“Tommy!” a woman’s voice shrieks. One of his sisters. 

Oh. Shit.

Of course.

Of course Tom wouldn’t want his family to know what he’s getting up to with their captive.

Tom grabs the chains and forces them into Ethan’s hand with a purposeful look. He doesn’t have time to tie Ethan back up, Ethan realizes. 

Ethan takes the hint and takes the chain, holding it behind his back so that it at least looks like he’s chained up.

Sally appears halfway down the stairs, stopping there to glare daggers at Tom.

“The fuck are you doing down here, Tommy?” she spits. “Ain’t you know you’re supposed to be scrapping the fucking motorcycles today? Ma’s not gonna keep you around if you don’t make your sorry ass useful.”

“Okay,” Tom says, as even and toneless as ever. “Will do it soon.”

“You fucking better,” she sneers, stomping back up the stairs and slamming the door behind her. Disappearing as abruptly as she came.

Ethan trains all his sympathy on Tom. 

Tom doesn’t speak, just scowls. He huffs a few deeply controlled, enraged breaths before he seems to snap into action. Roughly, he pulls Ethan forward and grabs the rope and chain, quickly binding Ethan for real again.

Ethan doesn’t know what he expected.

His heart beats quickly in disgust. 

Disgust at his own crushing disappointment.

The rope around his wrists feels like the ultimate betrayal after the time they just spent together. 

Tears prickle Ethan’s eyes. He can’t contain his glare, the sourness on his face.

Ethan has never felt so used.

It turns something that felt so illicitly _right_ into something overwhelmingly shameful and dirty.

Disgusting.

Ethan’s disgusting.

He should have never…

Tom finishes binding him. 

All Ethan can do is glare down at his own lap, hating himself for his dick still straining visibly in his pants. Angry tears fill his eyes until his vision is nothing but a wet blur of color.

Long, excruciating moments pass, until Tom’s fingers are under Ethan’s chin, lifting his head. 

Ethan blinks and the tears spill hot and humiliating down his face. There’s no use. Ethan’s entire plan is blown. He can’t keep the fucking anger off of his face. The humiliation. The betrayal. He can’t even pretend right now. The accusation in his glare must be palpable. 

Any progress he’s made befriending Tom is sure to crumble now.

Tom’s going to hate him, see Ethan’s negative emotions as a threat. He’s going to change his mind about liking Ethan.

Fuck.

Somehow, impossibly, there’s no anger in Tom’s expression anymore. His frown is soft.

“Have to,” Tom says. “Family can’t know.”

Ethan’s anger deflates just a fraction, and he hates himself for it. He hates how much that reassures him. He hates how much relief he feels, knowing Tom is accepting his anger rather than combating it.

“Sisters come down here sometimes,” Tom says, cupping Ethan’s face now, brushing the saline streaks from his face with the pad of his thumb. What is it about Ethan’s tears that makes Tom want to touch his face?

“It just hurts,” Ethan blurts, against his better judgement. This type of honesty has no room between them, not when Ethan needs to keep things as sweet and sugary with Tom as possible to save his own life. “After what we did.”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees, as if he could possibly understand.

“You don’t trust me,” Ethan grumbles, pathetically. “You don’t trust me to be untied without you.”

Tom is silent for a long moment. Eventually, he reiterates, “They can’t know.”

Ethan bites his tongue so hard he tastes blood, anger returning in waves. “I shouldn’t like you. Not when you have to tie me up while you’re not around.”

God. Every impulsive emotion flying out of his mouth should be manipulation instead. It should be a genuine attempt to convince Tom to keep him untied so he can find a way out. But it’s not—it’s fucking not. It’s Ethan’s own self-image breaking down, the cracks filling in with shame. Shame because—because he fucking actually likes Tom. And he’s fucking insulted that Tom is tying him up again. Not because he wants his freedom back, no, he’s not thinking about that at all right now. He’s insulted because of what it means that Tom _wants _to keep him bound and chained in his basement.

Ethan’s not an equal here.

Tom’s incapable of genuinely liking him.

Ethan knew that, this whole time.

But…

Fuck.

What is wrong with him?

Ethan jerks out of Tom’s grasp and bows his head, sobbing harder than he’s ever sobbed in his life.

He’s a mess. A fucking mess of a human being.

“They can’t know,” Tom repeats again, firmer now. “Too much risk. They’ll hurt you.”

Ethan’s head snaps up, glare lethal. “Oh? They will? _They’re _the dangerous ones? More dangerous than you?”

Tom’s frown is hard now. The gentleness is gone. He takes a step away from Ethan, as if Ethan’s a rabid dog on a chain that might lunge forward any moment with snapping teeth.

“You’re going to kill me anyway, so what does it matter if they kill me first?” Ethan growls. He really is a rabid animal.

“Won’t kill you,” Tom says quietly. Easily. “Can’t. Won't”

Ethan scoffs. Shoves his gaze to the wall.

“Like you too much,” Tom says. Simply. Matter-of-fact.

Somehow, Ethan believes him.

He still can’t bring himself to look at Tom. He sniffles. Glares at nothing.

“Only while I’m gone,” Tom assures. “Untie you when I’m here. Promise.”

“Whatever,” Ethan grumbles, emotions overriding his sense of self-preservation.

“Promise,” Tom assures again, and then, without another word, he retreats up the basement stairs, leaving Ethan alone with an unconscious Jed.

Ethan crumples into a ball and cries.


	11. Chapter 11

Dozens of hours pass until Ethan sees Tom again. He suspects it’s probably sundown now, over forty-eight hours since first being brought to this house, this basement. At least forty-eight hours. Maybe more. He has no way of knowing.

The sight of the larger man instantly pulls Ethan out of his slow, hazy thoughts that come with staring at the same surroundings for hours. 

Tom’s wearing only a white tank top tucked into his worn jeans, utility belt heavy around his waist. Sweat gleens across his skin, soaking into the collar of his shirt. He’s definitely been doing hard labor on the farm all day with the sun blaring overhead.

What Ethan would have given to be out there with him, watching him work.

What does he even work on? The farm looked barren except for a few barns with nothing but tools in them. The animals can’t take that much time to care for, right?

Ethan’s so busy staring at the bulging curves of the man’s arms that he barely registers when Tom, true to his word, unties him first thing.

Ethan rubs his raw wrists, ringed red with rope burn. He scoots to the edge of the table. Dangles his sore legs. “Jed hasn’t woken up all day. Isn’t snoring anymore either. But he’s breathing.”

Tom grunts, not even bothering to look at the man slumped beside Ethan. The information is meaningless to him, isn’t it? Even though Tom’s been changing Jed’s duct tape gag periodically to force water down his throat, he doesn’t seem to care if Jed lives or dies.

Honestly, Ethan doesn’t know if he cares, either. Should he, after the violence Jed incited against him? 

“What were you doing all day?” Ethan asks, swinging his legs and accepting the granola bar Tom offers him from a drawer where he’s apparently stashed them. 

“Making things,” Tom says, dismissive. “Carpentry.”

Ethan knits his brows. “Like, furniture…? Or sheds?”

“Furniture. Tables. Chairs. Sally drives into the city. Sells it all.”

Ethan frowns. “Is that how your family makes money? Just from the work you do?”

Tom shrugs. “Mostly. Ma works the gas station on weekends. Rest comes from the carpentry and animals. Milk the goats. Sell off the piglets.”

Ethan can’t school away the concern that bleeds into his expression. Tom’s family forces him to build furniture and tend the animals. All day. And at the end of the day, they make him stay in the basement in terrible living conditions, even though the house is two stories and must have plenty of space for everyone.

“That’s really the only way your family makes its money?”

“Besides my work? Just Ma at the gas station,” Tom confirms, tilting his head as if he finds the question strange. “Carpentry makes more.”

“And who keeps all the money from selling the furniture you make?

“Ma. Beth. Sal.”

“You don’t keep any of it?”

“No.” Tom shrugs again. “They buy food with it. I eat that. They buy me clothes. More tools. Wood. Other things.”

Ethan hums in frustration. Why doesn’t Tom see how fucked up that is, that not only is he the only one working to put food on the table, but he’s not allowed to handle the money at all? Not to mention he’s treated badly on top of all of that.

“Why do you stay in the basement?” Ethan asks. “Do you prefer it down here?”

“Always been that way ever since they let me live in the house. No choice. Like it enough.” He pauses at Ethan’s frown. “Family don’t bother me much, down here.”

Ah. So Tom tolerates living in the basement because it keeps him hidden away from at least one sister that beats him. Ethan’s sure Sally and Ma don’t treat Tom any better than what he saw Beth do.

It all strikes Ethan as such unnecessary suffering. All of it. Tom doesn’t realize he can leave, does he? Leaving isn’t an option to him, probably because this farmhouse and his family are the only things he knows. His whole world is right here, in this basement. He doesn’t know how easy it would be, in the grand scheme of things, to leave this place and never look back.

There’s unnecessary suffering elsewhere, too. In Daisy. In Ethan, even, being held here against his will. The bikers who were murdered by this family’s skewed sense of vigilante justice. How many people has this family killed? For how small a reason? Do they murder shoplifters at their gas station? The fact that Ethan’s here at all is evidence that they’re not above hurting innocent people.

Ethan’s not honestly sure he’ll ever be able to get Tom to understand the crimes his family is committing against him. He sighs, attempts a smile. “Can I see it sometime, the furniture you make?”

Tom blinks once in surprise. “Yeah,” and then, “Sometime.”

Ethan smiles wider at that, even though he’s not sure if it’s a promise Tom will be able to keep. But… 

Ethan looks down at his freed wrists. Tom has kept the one promise he’s made so far. 

“Can I go wherever I want?” Ethan asks. “In the basement, I mean?”

Ethan braces for anger. Simple rejection. Anything but permission. But Tom only nods.

The basement. Ethan’s seen enough of it in the listless hours he’s spent tied up with sleep eluding him. What is there to explore? He’s not about to start going through boxes of forgotten belongings or inspecting the tools stored in drawers and hanging from the walls. Nothing in the world could bring Ethan to going anywhere near the back of the room where Ricky was slaughtered. Not today.

Ethan pivots, gets a full view of the basement in a new light. Lets the tiny freedom Tom has given him sink in.

He’s allowed to walk around. To explore, if he wants to.

Ethan’s gaze falls back on Tom. Standing next to him like this makes their height difference all too obvious.

The only thing Ethan wants to explore is Tom.

Ethan reaches out carefully, as if to a wild animal, and places the flat of his palm on Tom’s chest. He gives Tom plenty of time to reject him, to withdraw—but he doesn’t. Tom tilts his head curiously. The touch would be too intimate if it weren’t for Tom’s shirt. It’s almost too intimate _with _the thin fabric barrier between skin on skin.

“I’m sorry,” Ethan says quietly, lifting an imploring expression to meet Tom’s curious one. “For my outburst, before you left. I just…”

What can he say? He’s a captive here. He’s just suffering. He’s just afraid. He’s just traumatized.

Tom shakes his head, stifling Ethan’s explanation. He brushes a large hand over Ethan’s curly hair.

Ethan gets the message. Tom doesn’t need him to apologize.

“I like you, Tom. Genuinely,” Ethan admits, eventually. “I don’t know what that says about me. I’m afraid to think about it.”

“Like you, too,” Tom says in that gruff, matter-of-fact way that Ethan can’t help but believe.

“I’m a captive here,” Ethan continues, words tiptoed through caution tape. This is a difficult subject. He’s trusting Tom not to explode under his feet like an active minefield. “Your family plans to kill me. Plans for you to kill me.”

None of it is a question, and Tom doesn’t object to a syllable of it.

“How are you going to deal with this? What’s going to happen to me?”

Tom frowns, a gnarled mix of misery and anger. “Will figure something out.”

It’s not a plan. Hell, it’s not even reassuring—but relief floods through Ethan anyway. Because—because Tom is on his side. He has been this whole time, and Ethan feels more confident about that fact than ever. 

“Promise?” Ethan asks, barely above a whisper. 

“Promise,” Tom agrees without hesitation, deep voice so, so sure.

Ethan lets his head fall forward to rest against Tom’s chest with a soft thunk. His fingers splay over Tom’s stomach, smoothing his shirt over the hard muscle beneath. 

Tom’s arms wrap around Ethan’s back, holding him closer, pinning him to Tom’s solid chest.

Being wrapped in the other man’s arms like this is so much less claustrophobic than it should be. Being pinned by strong arms, rendered immobile by the embrace should have Ethan hyperventilating with fear. Instead, he sighs contentedly at the comfort that washes through him in warm, buzzing waves.

“Can I ask you a question?” Ethan asks, suddenly. He’s braver, somehow, buried against Tom’s chest. “About your family?”

Tom grunts in acquiescence.

“Why does your family have you butcher people and put their meat in the freezer?”

Tom is silent. Ethan can feel his body tense.

Fuck. That came out much more direct than Ethan intended it.

Tom exhales heavily. “To get rid of it. The evidence.”

That doesn’t answer the question at all, really. Ethan can feel a cold sweat beading over his skin, suddenly. In fact, Tom’s answer only helps confirm Ethan’s suspicions of cannibalism. 

Carefully, Ethan asks, “...What do they do with the meat from the people you butcher?”

“Cook it,” Tom answers, and then releases Ethan when the smaller man has a visceral response to that, jerking away from Tom and stumbling back. “Feed it to the sows.”

Ethan’s face twists from horror to confusion. “What?”

“Cook it and feed it to the sows,” Tom repeats, frowning. He looks seconds away from scooping Ethan up and hushing him until he calms down.

“You—you feed it to the pigs?” Ethan asks, aghast.

“Opportunistic feeders,” Tom explains. “Will eat anything.”

“Y-yeah, I know, but—”

“Gets rid of evidence. But mostly cheap way to feed sows.”

“Y-you just butcher what can be stored in the freezer for the pigs?”

“Yeah. The rest get driven away. Buried. Sometimes just burned in the pit out back.”

Ethan can’t help it—he laughs. His mind is reeling. He has to hold on to the table for stability.

Tom’s expression is one of utmost concern and confusion.

There are tears in Ethan’s eyes from how hard he’s laughing. Jed groans in his sleep from the noise.

“I thought,” Ethan struggles between wheezes, “I thought—I thought you guys _ate _them!”

“What?”

“I thought you were cannibals!” Ethan exclaims, still laughing. He feels fucking insane right now—it _is _insane, to be relieved that these people aren’t cannibals, when—when, god, it doesn’t fucking matter, because they’re still slaughtering human beings, butchering them, and feeding them to their livestock. 

What fucking difference does it make if the pigs eat their victims instead of the family themselves?

And. 

Fuck.

Ethan knows. Ethan knows what difference it makes.

Ethan stumbles forward and grabs Tom’s shirt in fistfuls. He pulls the man down, but still has to stand on the tips of his toes to kiss the man on the mouth.

Tom isn’t a fucking cannibal.

Tom isn’t a cannibal.

And that shouldn’t make Ethan’s heart soar with joy. 

But it does.

Of course it does.

Because, because that’s one less fucked up thing about this situation. A little detail that makes it slightly less awful and disgusting that Ethan wants to kiss Tom until his lips are sore.

Tom grunts, surprised by Ethan’s eagerness, but he recovers quickly, reciprocating with enthusiasm. 

Tom’s lips are soft, even though the kiss is anything but—all hard suction and insistence. Ethan grasps at Tom’s shirt, unable press close enough to Tom, even though his tongue is inside his mouth.

“Bed,” Ethan gasps, when he pulls away for air. The poor wound on his lip is throbbing from the abuse, the pain familiar and oddly _right._  
_  
_Tom doesn’t need telling twice, he lifts Ethan easily in his arms and walks him past the curtain.

Ethan bounces when he’s dumped unceremoniously onto the mattress. 

Tom towers over him, staring, waiting. Ethan forgives him for the towering—Tom can’t help it, it’s in his nature. The staring Ethan understands, he can’t take his eyes off of Tom, either.

“Come here,” Ethan prompts, attempting to tug Tom down by the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t budge. “Really, Tom, it’s okay. You can do whatever you want.”

It’s too much permission to give away, considering Ethan’s situation. But Ethan trusts Tom, he realizes. He’s trusted him this whole time, since the moment he first saw him. It’s a blind trust, admittedly, faith in the benevolence of strangers.

It’s a trust that hasn’t been broken, not really, not yet, not by Tom. And maybe that’s just because Ethan’s expectations aren’t high—but Tom’s been so _careful_ with Ethan, this whole time. As careful as a wolf can be with a lamb.

The next thing Ethan knows, Tom is on him, mattress sinking under the man’s solid weight as Tom’s thighs straddle Ethan’s hips.

And—oh, god, it’s such a pleasant feeling, having the other man’s weight on him. 

“Your clothes,” Tom says.

“Yeah,” Ethan agrees, knowing immediately what Tom wants. Ethan struggles out of his shirt and tosses it away.

Tom’s hands are on him like magnets, smoothing over Ethan’s bare chest. Tom exhales, slow and shaky when Ethan arches into his palms, nipples hardening under Tom’s fingers. Tom grunts, a fiery sort of wonder written over his features. 

Ethan keeps his hips arched off the bed, erection pressing insistently against Tom.

Tom’s voice is gruff, hot against Ethan’s neck when he asks, “Hard again?”

Ethan’s surprised by his own laugh. “Yeah. Because of you.”

That earns a growl of appreciation from Tom. Pleasure sends Ethan’s skin alight as Tom’s teeth graze his neck.

With shaky fingers, Ethan tests the waters, unbuttoning Tom’s shirt between their bodies. Tom’s mouth opens against Ethan’s neck, latching there, sucking.

“Oh, God,” Ethan moans, fingers fumbling faster over the buttons. When Tom’s shirt falls open, he smooths his hands down Tom’s sides, marveling at the way he can feel the other man’s chest expand as he inhales vigorously.

Ethan rubs his fingers methodically above Tom’s waistband and it’s Tom’s turn to moan, deep and aggressive.

Ethan dips his fingers just under the hem of Tom’s pants. “Can I touch you this time?”

“Touching me now,” Tom deflects, voice like sandpaper.

Ethan bites his raw lip, searches Tom’s face. “No, I mean your cock.”

Tom rushes forward to kiss him, as if trying to stifle Ethan’s offensive language. Tom’s hips grind down against Ethan, rutting against him with need.

“Please,” Ethan begs between breaths. 

Gently, Ethan pushes against Tom’s chest until Tom leans back—all the way, until Tom is lying back on the mattress, sitting up on his elbows. His legs are spread. Ethan settles himself between them.

Ethan can’t help himself, he immediately puts his hands on Tom’s thick thighs, holding them open. Holding eye contact, Ethan leans forward and kisses the bulge straining against Tom’s jeans. 

Tom’s grunt is a deep, desperate noise as he snaps his hips forward, thrusting against Ethan’s face.

Ethan laughs. “Can I… get rid of it?” He feels much too sly, using Tom’s words from the shower. 

Without hesitation, Tom nods.

Ethan’s already pounding pulse climbs into his throat.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” Tom growls in frustration. And then, “Please.”

Fuck. The words go straight to Ethan’s dick.

Ethan’s fingers are no longer shaking as he rips Tom’s fly open and tugs his pants down enough to release Tom’s full erection. He’s not wearing any underwear. This knowledge feels more intimate than the fact that the man’s dick is bobbing in front of Ethan’s face.

Tom’s cock is impossibly large, swollen with desire. Much thicker than Ethan’s own. The sight of it makes Ethan’s mouth water.

God, how many times did he fantasize about this when he was a hormonal teenager? He _feels_ like a hormonal teenager now, sitting between Tom’s spread thighs.

Ethan lowers his face, nuzzles against the warm, smooth flesh of Tom’s erection.

Tom groans, gaze locked on Ethan between his legs. His mouth falls open with a need for more air when Ethan kisses the head of his erection.

Pre-cum beads from the slit, slicking Ethan’s lips. There’s something so attractive about the way Tom’s cock stands in a nest of dark curls. The pubic hair thins into a trail that leads up to his navel. The rest of his chest is hairless, all heaving, sculpted muscle.

It’s an odd and wonderful feeling, wrapping his fingers around a cock that isn’t his own. He grabs Tom at the base and opens his mouth around the head, engulfing Tom’s cock in damp heat.

There’s a musky taste that is uniquely Tom and Ethan isn’t surprised at all to find he loves it. He’s loved the idea of having his mouth on another man’s cock for as long as he knew what a blowjob was, and it’s just as amazing as he imagined. 

Ethan sinks his mouth halfway down, wetting the silky flesh with the press of his tongue. He sucks in time with a squeeze and pump of his fist around the base. The groan the ministrations elicit from Tom sends a surge of arousal through the pit of Ethan’s stomach. His own dick is throbbing with need inside his pants.

Ethan’s careful to mind his teeth as he bobs his head up and down on Tom’s cock. His face must be flushed from ear to ear just at the obscene, wet sounds emitting from his efforts.

Tom’s groan becomes a growl. His chest is heaving now. His skin is flushed too, even across the hard features of his face. That gets Ethan going more than anything else.

Ethan pulls away from Tom’s cock with a wet pop. Catches his breath, and says, “I like the way you taste, Tom.”

Tom’s resulting exhale is more groan than anything else. His hand shoots forward to tangle in Ethan’s hair, fingers cupping the back of his head.

Ethan groans and tries to lean into the touch, but Tom’s hand presses him forward until his face is bumping against his slick cock again.

Somehow, Tom’s always managed to communicate with Ethan, even if unconventionally. Ethan gets the picture.

Giddy with the knowledge of how badly Tom wants him, Ethan laughs and takes Tom back into his mouth. He immediately feels spit roasted between Tom’s bucking hips and his insistent hand urging him forward.

There’s a moment of panic when Ethan realizes just how little control he actually has—but after a few wrangled breaths, Ethan relaxes. He lets Tom fuck his face, the man’s hips setting the quick, desperate pace as he thrusts into Ethan’s mouth. Ethan does his best to angle the man’s cock so that its blunt head stabs into the soft inside of his cheek with every thrust.

Tom’s fingers in his hair send a delicious prickle of pleasure down his spine, and soon Tom’s hips are snapping up more and more erratically to fuck his mouth.

That and a low reverberation from deep in Tom’s chest is Ethan’s only warning before Tom’s cock spasms in his mouth. Ethan stills as Tom’s hand holds his mouth sheathed to the other man’s cock. Warm, surprisingly powerful spurts of come fill Ethan’s mouth. The taste is strong and too much, but he can’t pull away with Tom’s hand pinning him in place. So Ethan swallows greedily to rid his tongue of the taste.

Tom groans sharply, as if the added pressure of Ethan swallowing is too much, and promptly releases Ethan’s head.

Ethan’s careful not to overstimulate the other man as he pulls his mouth off of his spent cock.

Now that it’s over, Ethan sits back and wipes his mouth. Admires his work.

Tom is… glorious. Sweat beading his smooth chest, which is heaving with excitement and arousal. His mouth is slack, his expression dazed and satisfied.

Ethan has never been so aroused in his life.

Growling, Tom reaches for Ethan, snagging him on the arm and dragging him forward until his body topples onto Tom’s. Ethan barely has time to grip Tom’s shoulders before Tom is kissing him hungrily.

Ethan’s sure Tom must be able to taste himself in his mouth.

Fuck.

Ethan reaches into his pants, strokes himself with none of the tentative sentimentality that he awarded his first time giving a blowjob. It’s all quick, rough strokes as fast as he can manage with his fist down his pants.

He comes quickly, before Tom can even register that he’s jerking himself off. But when Tom does realize through his dazed state, he holds Ethan close as his body shudders through the shock waves of orgasm.

“Don’t worry,” Tom reassures, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you.”

Ethan’s too heady to be embarrassed by the whine of contentment that spills from him.

They stay like that for what feels like forever—Tom holding him tight in his arms, Ethan trying to remember how to breathe. Eventually, Ethan matches his breaths to the deep rise and fall of Tom’s chest. 

They can’t fall asleep like this, Ethan will regret it in the morning when he wakes up with semen drying in his pants. Somehow, he coaxes Tom up for a brief, sleepy trip to his small bathroom to clean their bodies of the mess they’ve made. Ethan changes into fresh clothes from his rooted-through luggage.

Afterwards, he hesitates, but decides not to push his luck with Tom. He’ll be good and go back to the table where he’s been chained up for the last few days. But when he starts to walk towards the curtain, Tom snags him by the arm.

“No. Sleep here.”

“With you?” Ethan asks, hopeful.

Tom nods and they fall into each other’s arms, forced into wonderful proximity by the tiny mattress. The heat of skin on skin is too good. Tom falls asleep almost instantly, his previously possessive grip on Ethan going slack. Ethan fights the weight of his own eyelids.

He can’t fall asleep.

He’s unbound.

Unmonitored with Tom asleep.

Suddenly, Ethan’s wide awake, adrenaline surging anew. 

His heart pounds, climbing full of anxiety into his throat.

He knows what he has to do.


	12. Chapter 12

Ethan’s chest is pressed against Tom’s sleeping form. His heart is beating so fast that he can’t believe it’s not enough to wake the sleeping man. Ethan waits as long as he can stand, body alight with apprehension. How many minutes has Tom been asleep? Fifteen? Twenty? More? Ethan has no way of knowing.

There’s no point in risking falling asleep himself—he needs to do this. Now.

Gingerly, Ethan pries Tom’s arms from where they’re wound possessively around his torso. After some nerve-wracking coaxing, Tom’s arms go slack. Now that they’re dead weight, Ethan lifts the other man’s arms off of him. With excruciatingly slow movements, he slides out of bed.

Tom doesn’t wake up.

Free now, cool concrete under his bare feet, Ethan studies Tom through the darkness. There’s a peacefulness to Tom’s sleeping face despite all its hard lines.

If Ethan’s escape attempt works, this might be the last time he ever sees Tom’s face. 

If it doesn’t work and he gets caught… then, well, this might be the last time he sees Tom’s face looking anywhere close to contentment.

If Ethan gets caught... he’ll have broken whatever tentative trust he’s managed to form with this man.

Ethan's heart pangs at the thought of losing this intimacy. Of going back to his old life, lonely and without Tom. What will he do without the delirious pleasure of Tom's mouth on his? Could any random hookup replace the intense blend of emotions Tom makes him feel?

No. He can’t think like that. He has to get out of here. For his own sake. For Tom’s too, even. If Ethan escapes, it’ll free Tom from this house—because jail would be better for Tom than this little bubble of abuse he’s been living in. Fuck. That’s—that’s not even what Ethan should be worrying about. The biggest priority is getting himself to a hospital. He has no idea how bad the internal injuries he sustained from the biker’s beating are.

As Ethan quietly dresses himself in the corner of Tom’s small room, he can’t help but feel like the pounding of his heartbeat is so loud it’s going to jostle Tom awake. Even his own breath is much too loud.

Still. He dresses himself and pads out of Tom’s room, carefully slipping past the curtain.

Tom didn’t shut off the lights in this part of the basement, the harsh incandescent light bulbs frazzle his vision for a moment. The first thing he notices when his eyes adjust is that Jed is awake.

Shit. Jed. What is Ethan going to do about him?

Ethan can’t risk untying him, it would waste precious time. Not that he even knows if he wants to give Jed that mercy.

As Ethan approaches, Jed’s eyes follow him, stare hard. Ethan half expects him to alert, to scream through the duct tape around his mouth and wake Tom just to watch Ethan suffer.

But of course, that would be counterproductive to escaping this.

“If I make it, I’ll send help,” Ethan whispers.

Jed’s eyes narrow, what’s visible of his nose wrinkles in a snarl. He thought Ethan was going to untie him, didn’t he? Ethan’s breath catches, waiting for the inevitable.

Jed is going to alert Tom, after all, isn’t he? Just out of spite.

But… no. He doesn’t. It must take a lot of self-restraint on Jed’s part.

Ethan sucks in a breath and moves past Jed, trying his best to forget about the man and focus on his goal: getting out of this house alive.

Briefly, Ethan considers trying to pack what’s left of the food that was in his luggage, in case help is several days away. He decides against it, his need for instant freedom clawing through his skin like an allergic reaction.

The stairs. He starts up them painfully slow, knowing from Tom’s trips up and down the stairs that each step creaks.

It’s dark, so Ethan feels out each step with his foot before putting his weight on it. Each groan of the old, splintered wood resounds as loud and dangerous as gunshots in Ethan’s mind. His breath is racing now. He’s almost to the door.

When Ethan finally reaches the top of the stairs, he carefully leans his body against the heavy metal door, pressing his ear against it. He listens for any signs of life.

The only sound he can hear is his own pulse thudding through his veins. He tries to swallow his heartbeat, but it keeps rising up like rancid food. There is no light coming from the crack below the door. He touches his fingers to the doorknob.

Slowly, so the door won’t make any noise, Ethan turns the doorknob.

It won’t budge.

It’s locked.

He turns it harder just to be sure. Pushes.

There aren’t any locks inside the basement door, Ethan runs his fingers along the edge of the smooth metal just to be sure in the half-light.

The door is locked from the outside.

It’s then Ethan recalls the rows of deadbolts lining the door from the outside, from when Tom first brought him into the basement.

The door is locked from the outside.

Heavily locked.

Tom is locked down here with the captives.

Ethan’s mind reels, and for one crazed moment he thinks that maybe Tom told his family he’d be leaving Ethan unchained, and to lock the door just in case. But Tom couldn’t have told them, wouldn’t have. Ethan is Tom’s little secret and Ethan can’t imagine Tom’s family being happy about what Tom’s been doing with him.

Briefly, Ethan considers breaking down the door—throwing his shoulder against it again and again until it bursts open. Making a run for it before Tom’s family can react.

Ethan doubts he even has the strength to do that.

He can’t risk it.

Tom’s the safer risk.

Relying on Tom to keep him alive is still the best option right now. Ethan can’t think of any others.

Tom’s safer, Tom’s safer than trying to beat his hands bloody on the door right now. Than trying to claw his way out through solid metal.

Tom’s safer.

Still, it feels like another missed opportunity when Ethan pulls away from the door and creeps back down the stairs.

Tom’s safer.

It’s the mantra in his brain to keep his knees from buckling under the weight of this defeat.

Tom’s safer.

Tom’s safer.

Alive in Tom’s basement is better than dead.

Dead is finality.

Tom is hope.

If Ethan’s wrong—if this is the wrong choice then… so be it.

Ethan can barely meet Jed’s eyes as he slinks past the man without explanation.

Jed’s expression is utterly scandalized, he groans out a muffled protest beneath the duct-tape. His chains rattle dangerously loud as he lunges against them toward Ethan, as if he wants to grab Ethan by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. As if he could with his hands bound behind his back.

There’s no point in trying to quiet Jed, so Ethan grits his teeth and hurries back into Tom’s bedroom.

Ethan strips his clothes off and slips back into Tom’s bed without incident. 

He curls up against Tom’s warm body and tries to feel safe.

Ethan’s not sure he’ll feel safe ever again.


	13. Chapter 13

Ethan rouses from sleep, his body held tightly in Tom’s strong arms. It hits him like a dam breaking—the musty smell of the basement mingling with the now familiar musk of Tom’s skin. The knowledge of what he tried to do last night stabs him in the gut. He tried to escape this man. 

Every action he takes from here forward will be deceit as long as that truth is omitted. But of course Ethan can’t tell Tom anything. Can’t even ask him why his family locks him down here at night, too. Can’t ask how long they’ve been keeping him caged beneath the house.

Tom’s already awake, watching Ethan’s face intently. How long has he been watching Ethan sleep? 

“Hi,” Ethan says quietly, voice hoarse from sleep.

Tom grunts in response, never one for words when something easier will suffice. His hands slip down Ethan’s sides, over his sensitive, bruised ribs. He stops at Ethan’s hips, stroking his thumb along the slope of the pelvis bone that dips towards his groin. 

Ethan squirms against Tom, body responding with delight to a touch that is new and familiar all at once.

Tom shifts, pressing the hard length of his shaft against Ethan’s thigh, as if to make him wordlessly aware of his need.

Tom doesn’t know how to ask for sex, does he? Doesn’t know how to express to Ethan that he wants him.

There’s a raw, animalistic sort of desire that exudes from Tom. The desire of a man deprived and repressed for too much of his adult life. A desire for self-discovery. Tom has been alone with this desire for too long. Completely unlike Ethan, who, despite being a virgin and entirely inexperienced, at least know from society and education what sex is, how it works, why he feels the way he does.

There’s something so visceral about the way Tom presses his cock against Ethan, insistently, overwhelmed with a need for relief that his self-restraint is struggling to hold back.

It turns Ethan on like nothing else ever has.

“We can do whatever you want,” Ethan says, breathy. The permission is as exciting as it is dangerous. He has no idea what Tom will do to him. 

Of course Tom doesn’t have words for what he wants. Instead, he sits up and pushes Ethan down until his face is in his lap. He threads his fingers through Ethan’s curly hair and guides his head forward until Ethan's lips bump the head of his cock.

Ethan’s balls tighten in a surge of arousal from being manhandled by Tom. For being needed. At the same time, he’s vaguely disappointed by Tom wanting more head, as if Ethan’s mouth on his cock is the best thing he could possibly imagine.

Still, Ethan wets his lips with his tongue before popping his mouth open over Tom’s cock and taking him inside. He splays his tongue flat and pushes against the underside of Tom’s shaft, lapping across the base of the head. 

Tom groans deeply at that, tight stomach muscles clenching as his hips lift up to push himself further into Ethan’s mouth.

This is fine, Ethan tells himself.

He should be glad that Tom isn’t asking for more than head, when that’s what Ethan has chosen to give him so far. If Tom had asked him for sex, it surely would have struck Ethan with a panic of pressure. 

So why is Ethan disappointed?

Why does he keep thinking about the bottle of lube in his luggage he uses to finger himself during masturbation?

Why does he keep thinking of Tom’s much larger fingers entering him instead?

He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t be the instigator. But when Tom tightens his grip on his hair, sending a wave of pleasure down his spine, all Ethan can do is moan around Tom’s cock.

When Ethan makes up his mind on faulty, arousal fogged impulse, he gently pats Tom’s arm to ask to be let up. It only sends Ethan’s heart aflutter when Tom understands what he’s asking and releases his grip.

Tom’s cock slips from his mouth with a slick pop, and Ethan flashes his eyes up to him, heart racing.

“There’s something else we can do…” Ethan trails off, searching for some sign of recognition in Tom’s face. He’s surprised to find it.

“You want to?” Tom asks, skeptical tone overwritten by the growl of arousal in his voice.

Ethan nods, face flushed, lips still pressed against the slit of Tom’s cock. 

“I haven’t—” Tom begins, as if in protest.

Ethan cuts him off. “I know. Me neither. We’ll figure it out.”

Tom nods, and Ethan sits up, licking the saline taste of pre-cum from his lips. 

“I’ll be right back,” Ethan says when Tom reaches to stop him as he tries to get out of bed. Tom releases him reluctantly, the barest trace of a pout on his stony face.

Ethan’s hands are shaking as he digs through his luggage. He finds the bottle of lube mixed in with his clothes at the bottom of the bag. He wishes he was the type to be optimistic enough to carry condoms on him. He hadn’t been expecting to lose his virginity on this road trip. Foregoing the condom is dangerous and desperate, but isn’t everything about his connection to Tom?

It almost seems fitting that he’s putting himself so at risk here. He knows it's not good that he feels a self-deprecating sense of humor at the symmetry. 

Ethan returns to Tom, nervous and flushed, but smiling.

Tom’s sitting up, watching with a transfixed intensity as Ethan climbs onto his lap, hovering over Tom.

Ethan feels powerful, somehow, straddling Tom. Maybe it’s the way Tom’s looking at him like he’s seeing another human being for the first time. Maybe he is. Maybe Ethan is the first taste of humanity Tom’s ever had.

Ethan snaps the cap open and slicks two of his fingers with lube. Tom watches as Ethan reaches between his legs, past his hard cock to his entrance. Ethan swirls lube against his entrance, trying his best to mentally relax.

“Can I sit on your lap?” Ethan asks, too embarrassed to be direct, to say something more appropriate like _can I put your cock in me?_  
_  
_“Yes,” Tom says, breathy and deep.

Ethan can’t accept that. He has to clarify, because knowing Tom wants this is more important than anything right now. He steels himself, then asks, “Can I put your cock inside me?” 

“Yes,” Tom affirms.

Ethan grabs the base of Tom’s cock and lines the head up against his slick ass. “Here?”

Tom’s voice is strained when he answers, “Yes.” His fingers grip Ethan’s hips like a lifeline.

Ethan closes his eyes. Steadies his own breath. He thinks about the first time he explored himself with his fingers, pushed one into his body and then two. Remembers how good it felt to brush his prostate for the first time. This is going to be the first time he’s had something larger than his own fingers inside him.

He manages to calm himself enough to push the blunt head of Tom’s cock past the tight ring of muscle. Gasping, Ethan grips desperately at Tom’s shoulder for support. Heat shoots through his body as he feels himself stretching around Tom’s girth. There’s discomfort at the size, but as his body relaxes, it adjusts.

Tom’s hands find Ethan’s hips, a welcome anchor to steady his trembling body.

Ethan sinks down slowly on Tom’s cock, letting it fill him. Pleasure curls up his spine like ivy, weaving, embedding itself there. A hot swirl of arousal pools in his groin.

Tom shudders harshly as he’s sheathed inside Ethan. His fingers tighten on Ethan's hips hard enough to bruise. 

Ethan won’t mind these bruises.

“It’s taking so much restraint, isn’t it?” Ethan whispers as he takes Tom fully, sitting flush in his lap now. “To keep from thrusting into me?”

Something close to a whine comes out of Tom’s mouth. He grabs Ethan by the back of the neck and guides their mouths together in a clash of lips and tongue. It’s as if he’s pouring all of the vicious desire boiling inside him into the kiss instead of using it to push Ethan against the mattress and pound into him.

Finally able to move, Ethan lifts himself up the length of Tom’s cock slowly. The low, rumbling moan Tom produces deep in his throat is enough to make Ethan’s skin hot all over. Bolstered, Ethan manages to roll his hips up and down at a steady pace.

Tom catches on to the rhythm after a moment and helps lift and lower Ethan’s hips. Tom’s intense stare lowers from Ethan’s face to his cock bobbing between them. 

“Want to touch you,” Tom growls, voice hoarse with arousal. 

“You already are,” Ethan says, panting. 

Tom’s eyes flick up to Ethan’s face again, and then pointedly back down to his cock.

“O-Oh,” Ethan breathes. “Oh.”

Tom hasn’t touched him there yet. Not really. Only through his pants.

“Please,” Ethan answers, after the cogs in his brain start moving again.

Ethan’s never had another person’s hand on his cock before.

Tom’s massive hand winds around him, stroking him slow and gentle.

The burst of sensation drives Ethan wild. Needing more, he bounces quicker in Tom’s lap to thrust himself up into Tom’s palm. 

Tom holds his fist there, stills it, as if to force Ethan to fuck him faster to get friction against Tom’s hand.

Ethan whines, half collapsing forward against Tom, forehead against Tom’s sweat-slick shoulder. There’s so much heat radiating between their bodies, the scent of Tom overwhelming him.

Tom. It’s Tom’s body against him. Tom’s cock filling him. Tom, Tom, Tom.

“Tom,” Ethan gasps, coming hard into the other man’s hand. His body tightens around Tom in spasms.

Tom grunts and comes too, Ethan can feel his cock pulsing inside him, his hot seed spilling inside him. 

“Fuck,” Ethan pants against Tom’s shoulder, biting and sucking at the skin there to release some of his tension. His body goes completely limp against Tom. He can barely breathe. 

“Yeah,” Tom agrees, chest heaving.

Ethan is so sated by the orgasm that he barely has time to think about how fucked up the whole situation is. Right now everything is just so blissfully _right._  
_  
_  
Tom can’t keep his hands off of Ethan for the rest of the morning. He paws at his naked, bruised body with his rough hands. Kisses him sloppy and visceral, splotching suction bruises all along Ethan's neck and collar bone.

Ethan enjoys the sensations that crawl up his spine, that make him mewl and arch under Tom’s efforts. He lets the pleasure dull his mind, keep it from wandering to the locked door he found last night and what that means. 

Eventually though, an alarm that Ethan didn’t know Tom had goes off on some sort of fraying wristwatch. Tom responds to it like a dog whistle, untangling himself from Ethan and hurrying out of bed.

Ethan watches the other man dress, curling up against Tom’s worn mattress and trying to enjoy the comfort of the bed while it lasts. Because Tom is going to leave for the day, and that means Ethan will be tied back up again.

“Have to go,” Tom grunts, pausing to stare at Ethan’s body splayed pale and bare on his bed. The faintest hint of fondness passes over his expression, disappearing soon after, replaced by something torn.

“Time to chain me back up?” Ethan offers with a sad smile. Part of him understands. Part of him knows this whole situation is strange and frightening for the both of them. 

Ethan swings his legs out of bed and stands. An act of obedience. Trust that isn’t entirely true, nor entirely a lie.

Tom looks away, raises his face to the ceiling. Sighs heavily. “Don’t want to.”

“I know,” Ethan assures gently. He doesn’t want Tom to tie him back up, either.

“Not going to,” Tom grumbles after a moment. He trains his gaze back on Ethan, features severe. “If you hear someone come, hop up on the table. Pretend to be chained.”

Tom’s having a change of heart? 

Ethan swallows his surprise and asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Have to pretend to be locked up though. Ma threatens to cut fingers off if I forget.” Tom holds up his left hand, which bears a half-inch thick horizontal scar dragging over four of his fingers. 

He hadn’t noticed that scar before. Ethan’s brows knit in futile concern. The scar is pale against Tom’s sun-tanned skin. It must be pretty old. Ethan's glad Tom's fingers are still intact, that a scar is the only souvenir he has from his mother's threat.

Ethan steps forward and takes Tom’s hand before he can pull it away. Kisses his knuckles, right across the scar, peppers his lips across its length.

Tom exhales, deep and measured. When Ethan pulls back, a flush ghosts across Tom’s face.

“I saw all the locks on the outside of the basement door when you brought me down here,” Ethan says, suddenly, against his better judgement. “Are those locks just for the people your family kills down here, or…?”

_Or is it to keep you locked down here, too?_  
__  
Ethan can’t finish the sentence.

“Don’t kill often,” Tom grunts, surprisingly candid. “Locks are for me.”

A wave of sympathy hits Ethan like a freight train. So his family does keep him locked down here. For how long? Since he was a child? Why only him and not his sisters? 

“The locks are to keep you locked down here?” Ethan clarifies, horror plain on his face. “Why? For how long?”

Tom frowns at Ethan for the longest moment, then says, “Take after my father. Look just like him is what my mother says. He was no good. Bad man. Like the bikers. Like all men.”

Ethan’s heart grows heavy with the implications. Has Tom really been kept locked in the basement like a prisoner for his whole life, simply because he looks like his father? Because other men gave his mother a disdain for men generally?

“How long?” Ethan whispers, terrified of the answer.

“Long as I’ve been allowed in the house,” Tom says, voice entirely blank. He shrugs. There’s no indication that he understands why this information upsets Ethan. “Used to be all day and all night. Until I got old enough to be useful, then they put me to work. Let me keep staying in the basement, long as I did my work.”

Ethan flounders, his concern dying in a frustrated syllable. He has no idea what to say, what can be said. 

“Have to go,” Tom says, gently now. He turns to leave.

“Wait,” Ethan says, dashing forward to kiss Tom. He has to stand on his toes to even reach the other man’s lips. 

Tom’s brows knit in confusion, but he returns the sudden kiss.

“Thank you,” Ethan says, pulling away. “For making me feel good.”

Tom nods and leaves Ethan, walking past the curtain and up the basement stairs. 

When he’s gone, Ethan feels numb. True to his word, Tom left him untied. Alone and unmonitored in the basement. Surely the door is locked. Ethan isn’t even going to attempt to check, because he can hear the telltale footfalls of activity in the house above him. He can’t risk an escape attempt with Tom’s family around.

Tom’s knife collection hangs docile on the wall for display. Ethan could easily slip one of those knives from its mount and…

And…

Ethan sighs.

What does it mean that Tom left him alone down here, untied and free to access the weapons lying around?

What does it mean that Ethan has no desire to take one of the knives from the wall?

He doesn’t want to know.


	14. Chapter 14

Ethan spends the rest of the day snooping around the basement, hesitant at first, then bolder. He forces himself as silent as possible as he goes through boxes stored in the basement, full of junk and old knickknacks, the kinds of normal things one would expect to find in storage. It’s almost disturbing to know that this family maintains any sort of normalcy. That, apart from the dead body in the freezer and the two live captives, this would be a normal basement. 

All the while, Jed is half-conscious, moaning and grunting behind the tape today. Ethan tries his best to ignore the man. He feels like a bad person despite what Jed has done to him, but the guilt lessens some when he catches sight of Jed’s incredulous stare, the disgust in his eyes as he watches Ethan explore without trying to escape. 

It takes Ethan a long time and a lot of willpower to venture onto the half of the basement with the metal butchering table and the freezer. 

Powerful tools hang from the back wall. A drill. A chainsaw. A bone saw still caked with flaky blood. Ethan averts his eyes from the tools, the _weapons, _the options they give him. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about that method of escape. Doesn’t want to think too hard about what’s best for him, right now. Because what’s best is probably taking one of those tools and trying to blaze his way out of this house. He doesn’t want to know what it means that he doesn’t want that kind of escape. Not if it comes with waiting at the bottom of the stairs and attempting to run Tom through with a blade the moment he least expects it.

Ethan… can’t do that.

Can’t think about doing that.

The freezer hums ominously from its position against the wall. Ethan has to look inside. Has to know whether Tom was lying to him about how frequently he kills for his family. The freezer opens with a plastic suction sound that makes Ethan cringe. Inside, there are boxes and boxes of packaged frozen food, on top of which lie the hunks of Ricky’s body wrapped in butcher paper. No other bodies. Bile rises in Ethan’s throat at the sight of the frozen food. Somehow, that’s worse than if he had found several other corpses. It’s worse knowing the heinous things this family has done intermingle jarringly with normalcy.

Boxes of old family trinkets stored away in a basement where people are butchered.

Grocery store food stored in the same freezer as a dismembered body.

Ethan stumbles back, disturbed. The freezer lid snaps closed.

Later, Ethan finds a box of old family photos, none of which contain Tom. Not even as a child. As if he’s been unwanted since the moment he was born.

Ethan eyes the gas cans stored under the stairs. Wishes he had a lighter to burn every smiling photo of this family that happily excludes Tom.

Next to the box of photos, Ethan finds an old wooden chess set, which he digs out and places on Tom’s bed. He waits there, napping.

Tom returns sweaty again from the day. Ethan wakes blearily from his nap and reaches for Tom instinctually. Tom obliges, hovering over him. Ethan can’t help it. He wraps his arms around Tom’s neck and greets him with a kiss. 

“Can we play chess?” Ethan asks when his lips part from Tom’s with a soft suction noise.

“Don’t know how,” Tom replies, but he lowers himself onto the mattress on the opposite side of the chessboard.

Ethan frowns. How much did Tom miss out on, locked away his whole life? It’s a wonder he even knows how to speak, with how little human interaction he seems to have had. Though, maybe that explains why he’s so short with words, as if there’s a discomfort with using them. 

“I’ll teach you,” Ethan says gently, smiling when Tom nods to accept his offer.

They spend the rest of the night playing chess. Surprisingly, Tom picks up the rules quickly and immediately resets the pieces for a rematch whenever Ethan puts him into checkmate. It’s exciting, somehow, watching Tom chew the pad of his thumb in thought, or growl in frustration when Ethan wins again.

Throughout the whole experience, Tom can’t keep his hands to himself, constantly reaching around the board to run his hand absently up Ethan’s thigh, or slip it beneath his shirt. 

After their last game, Tom leans over the chessboard, scattering pieces to the ground and captures Ethan’s lips roughly. Ethan moans into the kiss and pushes the board carelessly to the ground. Tom’s hand grips Ethan’s shoulder, shoving him down hard onto the mattress.

Ethan lies back, pupils dilating as he stares up at Tom, breath heaving. Why does being manhandled arouse him so much? Shouldn’t Tom’s strength terrify him? It doesn’t—god, it doesn’t.

Tom insistently tugs at Ethan’s shirt until Ethan raises his arms and lets him rip it off. 

“So beautiful,” Tom mutters, voice thick and husky with arousal. 

With strong hands on his hips, Tom flips Ethan over so that he’s lying on his stomach, ass in the air. There’s something incredibly vulnerable about this position, even though he’s clothed, and Ethan can feel his face burning red.

“Looks so good,” Tom grunts as he runs his palms up the length of Ethan’s back, shifting so that his erection pushes against Ethan’s ass through their clothes. 

Ethan whines with need, pushing back against Tom’s hips and grinding into him. His own cock is almost fully hard, straining at an awkward angle in his pants.

Luckily, Tom reaches beneath Ethan and tears open his fly, hooking thick fingers into the hem of his pants and pulling them down with his boxer-briefs in one rough movement. Ethan shudders, utterly exposed, cock free to push achingly against the mattress now.

Tom grabs handfuls of Ethan’s ass and squeezes, a growl of deep wanton rumbling from his chest. 

“The—the lubricant,” Ethan manages, not worried so much about having the lube as having the request let Tom know explicitly Ethan’s consenting to this. He wants this, badly. Wants Tom to take charge, to use him as he sees fit. “Please, do what feels good for you. Whatever you want.”

Tom pulls away for a moment and comes back with the lubricant bottle, previously discarded on the floor. He slathers his fingers and wastes no time tossing the bottle aside and slipping his thick fingers between Ethan’s ass. Ethan moans and arches against his fingers, which rub at his hole but refuse to penetrate. Tom’s fingers are gone as quickly as they came.

The next thing Ethan knows Tom is positioning the blunt head of his cock against Ethan's ass and pushing in without warning. Tom’s legs pin Ethan down, his free hand pushing on Ethan’s shoulder to keep him pinned to the mattress. Ethan couldn’t get away if he wanted to.

All at once, Tom sheathes himself, groaning deeply when he’s buried to the hilt, body flush against Ethan’s ass.

Ethan can’t help it, he screams as Tom penetrates him, the shout of pain and surprise turning into a long, breathless moan. The pain bleeds into an intense pleasure at the sensation of being filled so fully, so deliberately.

Desperately, Ethan thinks. Tom is desperate to fuck him. He has been since he first got back today, hasn’t he? How hard was it for him to endure those long chess games without tossing Ethan back onto the bed and fucking him like this?

Ethan’s once again impressed by the man’s restraint.

But that resolve, that restraint is gone now. Broken.

Tom only groans in pleasure in response to Ethan’s pained wail and writhing. He holds Ethan down with a massive hand and unsurprising strength. Tom starts to move unapologetically, snapping his hips back and then forward again in small, forceful movements. He leans forward and bites Ethan hard on the back of the neck, sucking pleasure into his skin. It’s sure to leave a mark. 

Ethan feels like he’s losing his mind, delirious with the pleasure of Tom’s teeth scraping his neck, his tongue, his lips, the glorious, mind-breaking suction of his mouth. 

Tom’s hips move faster now, meeting Ethan’s ass with the force of his thrusts over and over creating an obscene slapping of skin. The noise, Tom’s grunts with every thrust, only makes Ethan’s cock throb with need as it’s pinned between his belly and the mattress, desperate for attention. 

Ethan feels used in the best possible way. He feels like he’s fulfilling a purpose. Like his body is finally being used correctly for the first time in his life.

As Tom’s thrusts grow faster, more punishing, Tom mutters unintelligibly, close to Ethan’s ear, “Needed you all day. Thinking about you all day. Want this so bad. Got hard just thinking about you. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Don’t know what I’d do without this. Don’t know how I’ve lived without this.”

Ethan’s groan is more of a loud whine as the words go straight to his cock. Tom’s lust-filled rambling mirrors the thoughts Ethan’s had—wondering what he would do when he escapes and loses this intimacy. He wonders how many online dating sites he would have to scour to find something to replace this. But he knows nothing would ever replace the carnal need they both feel for each other. The glorious savageness of Tom’s touches.

Despite how blindingly hard Tom is pounding his ass, Ethan comes first, spilling onto the mattress and his own belly. Without even having his cock touched. It’s embarrassing and thrilling and Tom keeps fucking him hard, without seeming to notice or care that Ethan has gone limp beneath him.

Tom comes soon after, burying himself deeply with one last thrust as he fills Ethan with his come.

There’s nothing to do but try to breathe again after that.

Tom falls to the side of the bed, pulling Ethan roughly against him, settling his head on Tom’s chest. Ethan closes his eyes and focuses on Tom’s stampede of a heartbeat against his face. 

Somewhere, distantly, Ethan knows that he should try to stay awake again. Check the locks again just in case Tom’s family forgot to lock them tonight.

He should be thinking about escape.

He isn’t.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to check the lock.

Doesn’t want to be anywhere but in Tom’s arms right now.

Most of all, he doesn’t want to think about what that means.


	15. Chapter 15

Ethan wakes to having his naked body suddenly unsheathed, exposed to the cool basement air. It takes him a moment to register where he is—naked in Tom’s bed after a night of rough sex, body covered in marks left by Tom’s mouth. Tom’s threadbare quilt has been ripped off of their sleeping bodies.

Ripped off by Tom’s sister, Beth.

She looms over them with unfiltered fury written on her face. 

Ethan is too shocked to move.

“Well, well, well, little brother. Don’t fucking tell me this is why you’re taking so long to get rid of our _guests.”_  
_  
_The way she spits the word _guests _makes Ethan flinch. Like he and Jed are nothing more than trash that wasn’t wheeled down to the curb in time for garbage day. Why hasn’t Tom killed them yet? Was he supposed to butcher them all that first day? Well, Ethan knows why Tom hasn’t killed him yet. As for why Jed’s still alive, Ethan isn’t sure. Has Tom just been too busy messing around with Ethan that he hasn’t had the time to kill and dismember Jed? Or is the reason more complicated than that?

Could it be that Tom isn’t killing Jed because he doesn’t want to scare Ethan again? Ethan had been in pretty bad shape after Ricky’s death, despite what Ricky did to him. He had scarcely been able to control his sobbing.

Whatever the case—Tom hasn’t killed them yet. And his sister is pissed.

“You haven’t gotten rid of them cause you’re too busy fucking around with this one?” Beth laughs cruelty. “I always figured you were the type to drag them to your bed after they were dead, Tommy. Not before.”

Beside Ethan, Tom pushes himself upright, every last bit of grogginess washed away by a scowl.

Beth sneers at her brother. “How many of our other guests have you fucked over the years?”

Ethan’s heart is flying in his chest. He tries in vain to shield his naked body as much as possible. 

This causes Beth’s eyes to flash towards him. Growling, she lunges forward and grabs Ethan’s arm, ripping him off the bed. Ethan’s body hits the unforgiving concrete with a loud slap. 

Shit.  
_  
Shit, shit, shit. _  
_  
_They were careless to go to sleep in a state of undress. They were careless to sleep together in the first place. They were careless to ever unbind Ethan's chains.

No, _they_ weren’t careless. Just Tom was. 

Tom.

Just Tom.

Ethan was only trying to survive. 

Tom’s up and off the bed in the blink of an eye. Silently, he slips into his pants, shaking them up his hips and fastening them like his sister isn’t watching him right now.

Ethan feels like he can breathe again when Tom steps between him and Beth, whose face is red with rage now.

“I asked you a question!” Beth screams suddenly, voice echoing off the walls. “How many of them have you fucked?!”

Ethan can tell even from his vantage point behind Tom that Tom’s posture is stiff and roiling with barely controlled rage. His fists are clenched at his sides; Beth’s eyes flick down to them. 

There’s a warning in her expression, cold and frightening. She turns to look around Tom’s hulking form, her expression changing as it lands on Ethan.

“You poor boy,” she says, tone coaxed sickly sweet. Even the concern on her face is counterfeit. “What has my brother gone and done to you?”

Ethan’s jaw is locked, teeth clenched and eyes wide in fear. What can he say? What should he say? He’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, getting Tom into deeper trouble.

“We never wanted you to suffer none,” Beth continues with the same honey sweetness. “Just can’t trust no one, gotta protect our own. Get rid of bad men and witnesses. You understand. Never intended no torture… nothing sick like my brother done to you.”

Lightning quick, Beth hits Tom in the side of his head. His face snaps to the side with the force of the blow. 

Tom’s shoulders square, but he keeps his face towards the ground. 

Terror seizes Ethan harder, as if he is the one who was struck. There’s something disturbing about watching a man as strong and capable as Tom take his sister’s abuse without complaint. 

Of course he’s going to take it.

Of course he won’t stand up to his sister.

Everything Ethan’s learned about Tom points to his family having complete control over him. 

What is he ruled by? Fear? Loyalty? Brainwashing? Manipulation? It doesn't matter. The fact is that Tom has probably never stood up to his family and he isn’t about to start now, not for Ethan.

Maybe it's time someone stood up for Tom.

“He didn’t,” Ethan stammers, voice raw and shaky.

“Didn’t what?” Beth snaps.

“Didn’t hurt me. I…”

Beth’s expression grows harder by the second.

“I wanted to.” 

Tom actually turns to look sideways over his shoulder at him, shock plain on his face.

The confession shocks him. 

Why?

Hasn't he known this whole time?

“He's been sweet to me,” Ethan manages to add despite the fear seizing his body.

“How long has this been going on?” Beth asks sharply.

Why does it matter? She just wants Ethan dead. Why is she putting them through this humiliation first? Why, why, why?

“How long has this been going on?” Beth repeats, this time screaming the question. As if a reply only didn't come because she didn't command it viciously enough.

Without thinking, Ethan answers hastily, tripping over his words, “Since I first saw him. That's when it started. When he saved me from those bikers.”

Beth’s anger seems to shift jarringly to puzzlement. She searches Ethan’s face skeptically.

She can search all she wants. Ethan is nothing if not sincere. 

Beth scoffs. “Love at first sight, eh?” She laughs, seemingly amused. Then she spits on the ground and says, not entirely angrily, “Disgusting.”

Rage coils inside Ethan dangerously at the fact that she spit right onto the floor, disrespecting Tom’s already basic living space. He has the insane urge to go off on her, to tell her exactly what he thinks of her and her treatment of Tom. 

But of course he doesn’t. 

Of course he can’t.

Beth’s attention snaps to Tom again. “Better start talking, little brother. I asked you a question before. How many of them have you fucked?”

Tom’s silent for a disobediently long moment and then says, in that short, straight-to-the-point way he does, “Just him.”

Beth’s disgust is plain on her face. “You take after Sally, molesting the captives. Only, I guess there’s no repercussions for fucking a man. No extra mouth to feed.”

Ethan balks at the implication, realizing after a moment that Beth is referring to Daisy, Sally's child. Was Daisy really a result of Sally taking advantage of one of their previous captives? How many fucking people has this family killed and fed to their pigs?

“You think about fucking some of the others?” Beth asks, probably just to make Tom uncomfortable. “Any of the girls, or just the boys?”

Tom grunts, almost a snort of amusement. Says, again, “Just him.” He tips his head back to indicate Ethan.

“Christ,” Beth says. “Always knew you was weird. It’d be weird enough if you just had a hankering for men. But you ain’t never wanted to fuck anyone before this?”

Tom shakes his head in a firm _no. _That’s all the answer he offers.

Beth grunts in acknowledgement. Shakes her head as if trying to shake off a particularly disturbing thought. Eventually, she sighs. “Put some clothes on him. And bring him upstairs when you’re done. You've got some explaining to do. Ma will want to hear about this.”

They’re going to drag Ethan upstairs to face some sort of tribunal of Tom’s family? Just Beth knowing is bad enough. What will happen to him? What if they decide to kill him? Even if Tom was willing to betray his family’s wishes for Ethan’s sake, Ethan isn’t sure Tom could overpower the three women combined. His sisters are far from dainty things, their bodies muscular in a way that rival Tom’s own.

“Tommy!” Beth snaps when Tom doesn’t reply. “Do you fucking understand me?”

Ethan flinches at the sharpness of her tone as her voice rings off the cinder block walls.

“Yeah,” Tom murmurs, non-committal.

“Okay.” Beth snorts. “Don’t worry, little brother, anything that happens is for the best of the family.”

With a smile that is more sneer than anything, Beth turns to leave. 

“Oh,” she adds, “Don’t do anything stupid.” Her warning is icicle sharp as she exits with a swish of the curtains. Her footfalls can be heard trudging up the stairs. 

Ethan’s skin crawls with a spider-leg touch of anxiety and foreboding. When the basement door snaps audibly closed behind Beth, Tom’s silence and stiff muscles only serve to build Ethan’s panic to a knot in his throat.

Tom’s not saying anything. Not moving. This terrifies Ethan. No reassurance. No vow to protect Ethan from his family. Nothing.

“Tom,” Ethan whispers, voice full of mourning, “What’s going to happen to me?”

The overwhelming uncertainty of his own future staunches any tears that might proceed the breakdown Ethan’s teetering on the edge of. 

“Won’t know until we go upstairs,” Tom answers finally, his back still turned on Ethan. 

It feels like being thrown to the wolves. Tom isn’t going to disobey his family for Ethan. Betray them. Not more than he already has. There’s no use stalling anymore.

Ethan hauls his body to its feet. Gets dressed methodically. His entire being is on autopilot. Like his consciousness has faded to the background, leaving only the mechanical motions he’s used all his life.

Stand up.

Get dressed.

Accept whatever life fate hands him, because god knows he’s not choosing his own path.


	16. Chapter 16

Ethan follows Tom upstairs like a funeral procession. Tom didn’t attempt to bind his hands, though perhaps Beth had intended him to. Ethan’s free wrists only serve as a reminder of how powerless he is compared to Tom and his sisters. They don’t need Ethan bound to overpower him. 

The house is just as he remembered it the first time, all flower print furniture and quaint, worn decor. Tom leads him into the living room, which has couches and chairs and bookcases. An old wooden radio but no television. 

Beth has already gathered the family in the living room. They sit waiting like this is some sort of intervention. Tom’s boots stop in the middle of the room to stand before his family, dull wooden floor creaking beneath his weight. Ethan stands behind him, posture wilted into unmistakable cowering.

He hates that he isn't strong right now. That he isn’t able to stand up straight beside Tom. Like an equal. Like someone confident and fearless.

But. 

Ethan is nothing if not sincere.

And he is sincerely terrified right now.

This whole time Ethan has been so focused on surviving the basement. Surviving Tom. 

He was so caught up in that one goal he had forgotten that Tom was the least of his worries.

These people. Tom’s family. They’re the ones who created this hierarchy of abuse in the house. They’re the ones who, at some point in the past, decided that strangers who crossed them deserved to die and be fed to the pigs. 

Tom is just following orders. Following the only livelihood he knows. 

The three women sit on the couch, expressions hard. Sally with Daisy in her lap. Ethan’s heart leaps in apprehension at that. Why is the little girl here? She shouldn’t be here for whatever conversation is going to ensue. 

Tom’s mother sucks one cigarette down to the filter. She snuffs it in the ashtray beside the couch, and then immediately smacks a new cigarette out of the pack and lights it. She’s wearing the same knife and gun holsters on her hip that she was that day in the road. Does she always wear them? That seems… paranoid.

What is the old woman so afraid of? Do they really get bothered by biker gangs out here often enough to warrant the need for always having a weapon on hand?

Beth sits forward on the edge of the faded couch cushion. She points at them accusingly. “Went down to the basement to find out why Tom wasn’t working in the barn yet. I was surprised to find he still had one of them bikers alive and chained up down there. Shoulda finished butchering them all days ago.”

Ethan stares hard at the ground. He knows what comes next.

“Only, it weren’t just one of the bikers who was alive,” Beth continues, a tinge of amusement lacing her voice. As if she’s enjoying this, enjoying instigating whatever fallout will occur at her next words. “Found this one in bed with Tommy, Mama. They was together. Naked.”

“Tommy,” Ma seethes, shock quickly draining to suspicion, darkening to something knowing. “What you done to this boy?”

“Fucked him, Mama,” Beth replies easily. She’s definitely enjoying this.

Ethan wishes the floor would swallow him up. Wishes he could force himself to move, to huddle up against Tom’s large back, hide himself there. 

“How is that possible?” Ma asks sharply.

“Hell, I don’t fucking know. But I walked in on them in bed naked as the day they was born! Does it matter?”

Beside the other two women, Sally’s brows knit. “Tommy made that boy touch his willy?”

Ethan balks at that, suddenly sick to his stomach. The way these people talk about sex like it’s some gross thing. The way they keep referring to him as_ a boy_ feels dirty and wrong. He’s a man. A man who wanted to have sex with Tom. 

Worse than the scrutiny, worse than the juvenile way the family regards sex, is the fact that the little girl, Daisy, is sitting on her mother’s lap, hearing every word of this. 

Ma’s lip trembles with rage, her nose wrinkling in disgust. “You’re just like your daddy, Tommy. Always known you would be. Your daddy couldn’t keep his hand outta his pants neither. Horrible man.”

“The boy says he ain’t like daddy, though,” Beth says, still calm as ever. “He says he wanted it. That Tommy didn’t just take what he wanted.”

Ma glares past Tom, straight to Ethan. “Wanted it? Why on earth would you want that from my Tommy?”

Ethan flinches at the sudden attention. He had been beginning to feel invisible in the room.

Slowly, after several failed attempts to speak, Ethan answers, “Tom saved me. From the bikers.”

All three women on the couch just stare at him as if his explanation makes no sense.

Face flushing red under their stares, Ethan continues haphazardly, “I’ve always… basically known that I was gay. Was never really interested in girls. But there was no doubt when I saw Tom.” Ethan glances sideways at Tom, almost double-taking at the flush spreading across Tom’s stoic features. 

Tom is… embarrassed by what Ethan’s confessing. Embarrassment lighting his skin for his whole family to see.

“Don’t care where you prefer to stick your willy,” Ma snaps. “It ain’t polite to flaunt it. Things like that ought to be kept to yourself.”

Ethan’s speechless. Anger flares up in him at how derogatory she made it sound. As if his attraction to other men is about nothing more than sex. It reduces his sexuality to his genitals. It’s dehumanizing. The weirdest thing is that this old woman seems more prudish than homophobic.

It’s the crass language in front of Daisy that strikes Ethan with a sudden realization. Some part of him has been entertaining the notion of not turning this family in to the police if he ever escapes, just to spare Tom. He realizes now he can’t do that. He has to get Daisy out of this household. There’s something so very wrong about their willingness to speak so explicitly in front of the child on top of grooming her for violence.

“Tommy ain’t never asked for much before,” Beth points out unexpectedly. “He always done what he’s told.”

Ma’s eyes narrow. “What’re you getting at, girl?”

“I think we should let him keep the boy,” Beth says, a crooked grin splitting her face. Ethan can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You always said men have needs that make them dangerous. Tommy ain’t never tried to touch us like you thought he would. Maybe he deserves a toy to play with.”

Ethan’s head spins, he thinks he’s going to be sick. What the hell is wrong with these people? There’s something about this conversation that disturbs him much more than the blood and death.

“Tommy’s been good because we kept him in his place,” Ma responds harshly. “Can’t let men have no freedom or they’ll turn into monsters like your daddy.”

Beth snorts. “So give Tommy a pet to keep the monster at bay. Seems logical to me.”

As disgusting and devoid of reality as Ethan finds this conversation, he can’t help but reel at the fact that Beth is… advocating for keeping Ethan alive. Keeping things as they are, with Ethan locked up in the basement with Tom. 

It’s what Ethan wants right now, isn’t it? To make it out of this conversation alive, even if it means continuing to live a meager existence in captivity? Alive is better than dead. And…

Tom.

Ethan trusts him, in a tentative, illogical way that makes his heart pound in sickening confusion.

He isn’t ready to die. To leave Tom. 

He wants, more than anything, to find a way out of this mess that leaves whatever bond he’s building with Tom intact.

He’s lost his mind, hasn’t he?

“You got yourself a point,” Ma grumbles reluctantly.

Sally squeals in horror, jumping to attention so fast it rattles the child in her arms. “That ain’t fair! You made me kill my baby dad!”

...What?

Horror seeps like frigid water through Ethan’s veins. So it’s true. Sally… was in the same situation as Tom at one point? She wanted to keep a captive but her family made her kill him? Daisy is the result of that situation?

Beth laughs, and it’s then Ethan realizes why she’s advocating for keeping Ethan. 

Beth… wants to see her sister Sally suffer. 

Beth’s only siding with Tom as a way to be cruel to her sister.

“Vote would be even if we took one,” Beth points out.

“Tommy don’t get no vote,” Ma says.

“Maybe it’s time he starts,” Beth shoots back.

This whole conversation only serves to illustrate to Ethan who really calls the shots in this family. 

It's Beth, isn't it?

“It’s good for all of us if we keep him,” Beth says. “Put Tommy’s pet to work. Ain’t enough hours in the day for Tom to do it all. Laundry and cooking don’t get done most days on account of Tom having too many orders. Put the pet up to it.”

That…

Ethan hates it, but hope swells up inside of his chest at that. Because what Beth is suggesting sounds like more responsibility.

And more responsibility equals more freedom.

More freedom gives him more chances to escape. 

Ethan just has to bide his time until this arrangement dissolves into normalcy.

And then he’ll have his chance to escape this place.

“Alright,” Ma agrees reluctantly, much to Sally’s chagrin. “We’ll let Tommy keep the boy. For now.”

Beth stands and shoves past Tom to grab Ethan by his jaw. She lifts his face until he’s forced to make eye contact with her. “One wrong move boy, and you’ll be nothing more than slop for the swine.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Don’t you have work to do?” Beth snaps at Tom after the impromptu family meeting. 

It’s not a question—it’s an order. 

One Tom hesitates to obey.

“What, you afraid of leaving the boy under my watch?” Beth sneers, standing up straighter and squaring her shoulders. She has to tilt her head up to meet her brother’s eyes. Despite being a foot shorter, she still manages to look intimidating. “That’s sweet of you, being worried about me—but you ain’t never learned anything if you think I can’t snap this boy’s neck if he looks at me the wrong way.”

Tom only grunts in response, eyes flicking briefly to Ethan. There’s a flash of concern there. Distaste. He clearly doesn’t like the idea of leaving Ethan at the whims of his family.

Ethan’s sure Beth knows this and is being facetious.

Ethan’s stomach drops when, despite Tom’s hesitation, he turns to leave. He doesn’t spare a word for Ethan, not in front of his family. Of course he doesn’t. 

The lack of reassurance feels like abandonment. 

Ethan holds his breath when the front door swings shut behind Tom. He’s off to do farm work or carpentry or whatever his family makes him do. And Ethan… Ethan’s left at the mercy of Beth.

“C’mon,” Beth says, smacking Ethan on the back of the head hard enough that he lunges forward. “First order of business.”

Ethan’s jostled as she pushes past him. With one last glance at the sour expressions of Sally and her mother, Ethan follows Beth like a scolded child.

What else can he do?

Beth leads Ethan into the basement, where she instructs Ethan to gather up all his luggage, whatever’s left of his possessions. Ethan obeys, packing his strewn clothes back into his suitcase while Beth looms over him. 

He moves quickly, refusing to risk creating any measure of excuse for Beth to scold or hit him. Ethan’s sure that’s what this is all about for Beth—having another person in the house to control and abuse. To build up her sense of superiority. 

Ethan’s thankful the lube and food Ethan had packed aren’t mixed in with his luggage. Whatever Beth’s going to do with his possessions, it’s sure to involve destruction. At least it’ll just be spare changes of clothes that Ethan is losing. Those don’t matter. What matters is staying alive.

Despite his weakened state from his lack of quality food and untreated wounds, Ethan lugs his over-large suitcase up the basement stairs without Beth’s help.

“Bet you thought you was clever, hiding that cell phone in your luggage before,” Beth says as she leads him through the house.

Ethan stays silent—what else can he do? Argue with her? Try to convince her of the truth, which is that he hadn’t been thinking about his cell phone at all when Tom carried his luggage into the basement. She’d never believe him.

“I took care of that. Your GPS will show that you stopped for gas here and were on your way. No one’s ever going to find you.” There’s a trickle of amusement in her voice. She assumes this information hurts Ethan and is pleased by that. It does hurt. “Drove your phone out three towns over and then taped it to the underside of a trucker’s semi. It’ll be God knows where until the battery dies. No one’s gonna come looking here, that’s for sure.”

An angry, suffocating heat swells in Ethan’s lungs at how obviously proud Beth is of herself. 

“Good,” Ethan shoots against his better judgement. He has no qualms lying to this woman. “My parents are homophobic. Your family accepted me. I don't want to go back.”

Lies, lies, lies—it’s all a lie. Tom’s family hasn’t accepted him—they just want another person to torture and control. 

And Ethan’s family isn’t homophobic—he never even came out to them to know their reaction, but he’s sure they would be accepting. Probably. They just… didn’t really know Ethan. Never asked. Maybe they were afraid to ask if he was gay because they didn’t want to risk upsetting him if he wasn’t. As if a hypothetically straight Ethan’s feelings are more important than gay Ethan’s feelings.

It wasn’t an ideal environment to come out since he truly didn't know for sure how they would react… but his household wasn’t openly hostile at all.

Ethan was just too awkward to talk about his sexuality, something he considers private, to his parents. He always figured he’d have to come out eventually when he got his first boyfriend. But that never happened. Probably because he was still in the closet…

A wave of regret washes over him at the missed opportunities he’s snuck past his whole life.

The opportunity to experience the acceptance of family and friends.

The opportunity to be who he really is, unapologetically.

Is it possible that he could ever make up for the lost time? Will he even, realistically, make it out of this situation alive to have a second chance?

Beth leads Ethan outside into the bright daylight.

Ethan almost recoils at the harsh glare of the sun, the sudden wave of heat. It’s only been days, but it feels like an eternity since he’s seen light that bright. The heat of the day caresses his skin to gooseflesh. It reminds him too much of the heat of being beneath Tom’s body.

They keep walking until they reach a burn pit behind the house. Ethan watches as Beth tosses new wood into the pit from a pile nearby. It’s not long before she has a crackling fire going. The sight and smell of the fire is suffocating in addition to the hot breeze.

Ethan stares at the tree line in the distance. The urge to flee scratches at his insides like a whining animal trapped behind a latched door. He should run. Will this be his last chance to run?

Would Beth be able to catch him? Tackle him to the ground? If she did, it would all be over. She would kill him right there with the knife on her belt. And then she would make Tom clean up the mess of his ruined corpse.

He can't run.

He's too weak right now, sore all over from the biker's beating.

He tears his gaze away from the tree line.

He can't run.

He has to survive.

“Toss it in, go on,” Beth orders, indicating the luggage. “One thing at a time. Don’t wanna smother the fire.”

Oh. Right. Ethan should have seen this coming. Ethan does as he’s told without question, ripping the zipper open and tossing one piece of clothing in the fire at a time. He watches dazed as each bit of evidence of his normal life curls and burns in the fire.

It’s a slow process to burn everything one by one. He’d packed several changes of clothes. The suitcase itself gets tossed in last and produces the worst smell by far, with all its melting plastic.

“Those too,” Beth says with the most pointed stare.

“What?” Ethan asks, confused.

Beth responds only with a slow drag of her eyes from Ethan’s head to his feet and then back up again.

Oh.

Fuck.

“The clothes I’m wearing?” Ethan asks, already knowing the answer. It’s a feeble attempt at resistance. At stalling.

Beth’s eyes narrow, sensing his hesitance. “Now.”

Ethan sucks in a breath and pulls off his shirt. He tosses it into the fire quickly before he can convince himself to change his mind. His sneakers go next. It hurts the most to kick those into the fire. He can replace his clothes easily with Tom’s clothes—he’s sure Tom would spare one of his large shirts for him. But there are probably no shoes in the entire farmhouse that will fit him. 

The shoes were his size. They were his. And now they’re being licked to ash by the flames.

And he was wrong—the burning rubber of the sneaker's soles are definitely the worst smell. 

His jeans go next, and Ethan can’t help but scowl as he hops out of them, Beth watching the whole time.

He hesitates before shedding his underwear too—but the sharp look Beth is appraising him with tells him he should do it without question.

Ethan stands there, fully naked, the last of his clothes burning, trying his best to cover his groin with his hands. 

It’s humiliating. Fury makes his jaw clench. He can’t manage to keep the disgusted look off his face as he waits for his next order.

Most of all, he’s ashamed. Ashamed that he’s obeying instead of fighting back. Ashamed that he’s come too far to take the risk of trying to fight back.

Beth whistles, low and impressed, eyes viciously scanning his bruised body without permission. “My brother sure was rough with you.”

Ethan says nothing. Bites his tongue hard to keep any ill-conceived retort at bay. 

“You’re a good liar,” Beth admits, grinning. “You expect me to believe you didn’t put up a fight the first time he had you?”

That.

Ethan has to use every ounce of his restraint to keep his mouth shut.

She can say what she wants about him, but Ethan can’t fucking stand the way she treats her own flesh and blood. How long has Tom endured this kind of emotional abuse? Has he been subject to the same brand of humiliation Ethan is facing now?

“Question is,” Beth says, slow and considering, “Did Tommy convert you with his cock, or are you just faking your feelings for him?”

Ethan sees red. The words fly out of his mouth in a flash: “I wish. I fucking wish I was faking it. Reality is much, much worse.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“What’s worse?” Ethan shoots, grimacing, “If I’m faking it to save my own skin, or if I’m telling the truth—if I actually did fucking like him the moment I saw him?”

Something about his expression must be serious enough that Beth is taken aback.

She grins. “God, least I can go to my grave knowing I ain’t as fucked up as you.”

Ethan snorts at that, disgusted and disturbingly amused. Because—yeah. Yeah, that’s how he’s been feeling.

That wanting to fuck his captor, a man who both scares and arouses him, is more fucked up than murder. Actual fucking murder.

He feels so ashamed of himself and his budding feelings for Tom, as if they're worse than all the fucked up shit he's witnessed Tom and his family do.

Would anyone agree with that? Agree that Ethan's feelings are more disturbing than violence?

Ethan can’t imagine his friends and family responding to his feelings for Tom with anything other than disdain and disgust.

“Better get you some new clothes,” Beth says, like this is a totally normal subject change. Like Ethan isn’t standing completely naked in broad daylight, watching the remainder of his possessions burn to ash.

Still, Ethan follows Beth back into the house without protest, even though he’s frantically praying in his head that Daisy won’t be around to bear witness to his unclothed state.

Thankfully, he doesn’t see her around.

“Ain’t nothing of Tommy’s is gonna fit a scrawny thing like you. Guess I gotta find something for you in Sally’s closet.”

Ethan’s stomach churns at that, not because he particularly minds the notion of wearing women’s clothes—but at the fact that this is another attempt to further humiliate and degrade him. 

Beth leads Ethan upstairs to the second floor of the house. It’s all peeling floral wallpaper and dusty, crooked picture frames—all of which contain pictures of the women in the house. None of Tom. Just like the photo albums Ethan found buried in junk in the basement.

Just as Ethan thought, there are at least five rooms up here branching off from the hallway. Plenty of space for each member of the family to have their own room, including Tom. In fact, they pass one open room that appears to be used completely for storage, filled to the brim with boxes.

So. They do keep Tom in the basement just to be cruel. 

To hide him away like something to be ashamed of.

To punish him for existing.

For being born at all.

Ethan grinds his teeth to keep himself from commenting on this particular observation.

Beth leads him into what must be Sally’s room. It’s messy, filled with personal possessions and hearty wooden furniture that looks expensive and new. Did Tom make it?

Ethan’s seen Sally dressed in normal pants and T-shirts that would easily pass as unisex clothing, but when Beth digs through Sally’s closet, she pulls out a long, old-fashioned dress.

It’s simple and white. Flowing, with no shape to it. 

The closet is full of simple T-shirts and pants that would definitely fit Ethan. 

But sure enough, Beth shoves the dress at him and says, “This’ll do for now.”

She’s… fuck, she’s not just trying to humiliate him, is she? She’s intentionally trying to provoke him, to push his buttons, to see how far he’ll let her subtle sadistic orders go.

Ethan takes the dress. It’s just clothes. It’s just fucking clothes, and he won’t let her get under his skin. He refuses to feel emasculated by this, refuses to be ashamed as he gratefully slips the dress over his naked body, genuinely glad to be able to cover his bruised, vulnerable skin. 

The dress is soft and light-weight. Linen, probably. It hangs from his shoulders on straps, neckline shaped like a tank top. The shapelessness of it doesn’t give his body the appearance of breasts or even accentuate his hips. He’s glad for this. It simply hangs straight down his body like a long shirt, the only feminine part of it is the flowing skirt that reaches his knees.

It’s not bad at all. He genuinely isn’t humiliated by it, though he’s offended by Beth’s clear attempt at humiliation. He wonders if maybe he should pretend to be more embarrassed than he is just to appease her, satisfy whatever rush of superiority she’s looking for. In the end, he can’t even bring himself to fake emasculation. 

The next thing Beth shoves at him is a pair of bikini-cut women’s underwear. Simple, with only slight frills around the openings and a small pink ribbon bow on the front hem. 

Ethan almost rolls his eyes.

He steps into them and slips them up beneath the skirt without question, thankful that the skirt obscures his body beneath as he does so. 

They fit okay around his hips, but the shape of them is not designed for someone with a penis, and they’re vaguely uncomfortable in that department.

But. He’ll live.

Beth gives him a once-over and Ethan drops his gaze to the floor, cheeks pink from just the embarrassment of having been nude moments before. Beth snickers, seeming to mistake this for a victory.

“Okay,” she says. “C’mon, now you’re ready to be put to work.”

Ethan nods and follows, dreading the rest of Tom’s family’s reaction to the dress flowing around his knees. 

What else can he do?


	18. Chapter 18

Household chores soak up the rest of Ethan’s day—all under Beth’s scrutinizing watch. There is no shortage of belittling comments as he scrubs a sink full of dishes, piling them up on the drying rack until it’s overflowing. He spends the whole time wondering if any of these dishes were used for cooking human meat for the pigs. Are the scraps of soft _something_ he’s washing off the frying pans human flesh? 

Ethan’s not sure what reaction he expected to the dress, but his face heats in shock when the matriarch of the family simply laughs herself into a coughing fit. Sally’s angry at first, seeing her closet has been ransacked without permission. But then Sally’s gaze turns lecherous enough to have Beth shooing her away from Ethan, as if Beth is the only one allowed to lay claim on his psychological torture.

The family doesn’t own a washing machine, probably because the home seems to be powered solely by a thrumming generator outside. So Ethan washes several baskets of laundry by hand with a bucket and wooden washboard. Beth laughs heartily at his first attempts to figure out how to use the washboard, but soon he gets the hang of it, arms quickly sore from the scrubbing. Afterwards, Ethan hangs the laundry to dry on the clotheslines outside, pinching each sopping item in place with wooden pins. From the side of the yard the clotheslines are in, Ethan catches glimpses of Tom working across the field, shirt off and clearly sweat-slick.

With Beth looming nearby, Ethan can’t allow himself to be distracted too much by Tom. But still, Ethan spots the exact moment Tom notices him hanging the clothes in the distance—Tom jerks to a stop mid-motion as he bends to haul a slab of wood over his shoulder. Tom stares and then turns away as if caught doing something illicit.

Ethan wonders if Tom registers the dress from this distance, or if he notices the water from the clothes dripping down Ethan’s arms. Or his white dress clinging half-translucent to his skin in several spots where the soapy water from the bucket sloshed over the rim. 

Ethan’s heart sinks when he finishes with the clothes and is ushered back inside. Just being able to see Tom from afar had lifted his mood exponentially. He’d much rather be in the barn with Tom, watching him work, twitching with the restraint it takes to keep his hands off of the much larger man.

The remainder of the afternoon is spent on his hands and knees scrubbing the hardwood floors with a threadbare towel, which tears further every time he wrings it out. It’s excruciating—the situation, the burning pain in his limbs from the sudden overload of physical work—but most excruciating of all is the way Beth looms over him, sometimes bored, sometimes much too interested in critiquing his work. With her watching him, he can’t slow his pace for even a moment, can’t stop to breathe or rest his arms. She hasn’t even given him a break to eat or drink water, his head is pulsing with what’s sure to be dehydration. 

Is every single day going to be like this, or will Beth lose interest in playing proctor eventually?

Ma, Sally, and Daisy seem to mostly steer clear of him, either because they see him as an eyesore, or because they want to avoid Beth’s control and scrutiny being hurled in their direction.

Ethan spends the entire day reminding himself that eventually Tom will return from his own work on the farm and then, hopefully, Ethan will be free to return to the basement with him. 

The thought of getting to deposit his exhausted body into Tom’s arms at the end of the day is so, so alluring. It’s the only thing keeping him going.

Eventually, the creaky screen door swings open and the familiar sound of Tom’s boots hit the freshly mopped floor.

“Guess you’re finished for the day,” Beth says, grabbing Ethan by the arm and hauling him to stand, as if knowing she’d worked him so hard today that he would scarcely be able to stand on his own.

It’s this sudden facade of kindness that makes Ethan realize there’s another reason she must have kept him alive—to retain control over Tom. Ethan’s another thing to leverage against her brother, to keep him in line. To keep him from any sign of breaking free from the family.

Beth’s smart, in her own way.

She knows her brother won’t be happy if he thinks Ethan’s been treated poorly all day, worked to the bone without breaks or food.

Tom stops at a conversational distance, silent and waiting for some sort of indication from Beth for how the rest of the night is supposed to go.

“Ma! Bring the boys some food to take down with them!” Beth shouts towards the kitchen where Ma has been cooking dinner, making another load of dishes for Ethan to do tomorrow, surely.

After a few moments, Ma appears with one plate of food, handing it off to Tom without looking at Ethan. 

“It ain’t decent, the two of them alone in the basement together,” Ma grumbles at Beth, voice sour with distaste.

“Where the hell else we gonna put him?” Beth shoots back. “Who cares if it’s decent? Tommy’s already fucked the boy.”

The boy, the boy, the boy. It’s as if Ethan isn’t an adult, a human being with his own identity. He’s twenty-three years old for god’s sake. It’s been a whole day, and not one of Tom’s family members has even bothered to sarcastically ask for his name. They don’t know it. They don’t even know his name. They don’t care. He’s not a person to them.

“I always known that boy was gonna be depraved just like his daddy,” Ma mutters under her breath as she shuffles back into the kitchen.

As if Tom’s sudden soft spot for Ethan somehow justifies the lifetime of abuse and neglect Tom’s mother put him through. It’s absurd and infuriating, but Ethan clenches his teeth but holds his tongue. 

When Beth escorts Ethan and Tom back into the basement, she snaps the door shut behind them, deadbolt clicking loudly as she locks them inside.

It’s heaven to be alone with Tom again. Even though Ethan’s sure Tom will share his plate of food with him, eating is the last thing on Ethan’s mind. He’s not sure he even has the energy to eat. The strong scent of gasoline from the cans under the stairs don’t help his appetite, either.

And besides, Tom discards the plate on top of a pile of boxes anyway, and turns his full attention to Ethan.

Ethan stands, shoulders slumped, suddenly aware of exactly what he’s wearing. The dress Beth forced him into. 

Tom is staring. So intense. Like it’s the first time he’s ever laid eyes on Ethan.

Ethan spares a quick glance towards the middle of the basement, where Jed is awake and staring too, eyes incredulous at the sight of Ethan’s dress. He must be wondering what the hell happened to Ethan today.

Ethan wonders the same.

Tom fists his hands into the dress, yanking Ethan forward. Ethan collapses against Tom’s wide chest, still bare from whenever he shed his shirt in the heat. 

A rush of relief, the tingling thrall of safety, crashes through Ethan like fresh lungfuls of air after too long underwater. He lets all his weight lean against Tom, lets himself be held upright by strong arms coiling around him, holding him protectively close.

He feels rootless. Felled.

He needs this man to take care of him now, sand him down, craft him into something new.

Ethan couldn’t care less that they’re in plain view of Jed. Fuck him.

Fuck everyone but this man standing before him now, keeping him afloat.

“Sorry about the dress,” Ethan murmurs against Tom’s chest. “Your sister made me burn my clothes.”

“Saw that,” Tom says against Ethan’s hair. 

“She said this is the only thing that would fit. I think she just wants to humiliate me.”

Tom grunts in agreement.

“Being in a dress is far less humiliating than being a prisoner here in the first place.”

Tom stills at that, his fingers halting their slow vertical caress of Ethan’s back. 

Ethan instantly wishes he hadn’t mentioned his status as a captive here. Or at least, not mentioned it so bitterly. 

Tom’s hands shift wordlessly to Ethan’s waist. “Don’t want you to be,” he says, leaning possessively over Ethan and kissing forceful and slow down the side of his face. “Want you to be free.”

Ethan’s not sure if it’s the words or Tom’s lips that make his heart pound.

Tom’s grip on his waist coaxes him to move, backing him up behind Jed’s field of view, to the back half of the basement. Tom lifts Ethan onto the cold metal table he used to butcher Ricky. Its surface is clean now, hosed down at some point, at least, but Ethan can’t help but cringe. How many lives has Tom taken on this table? How many bodies has he cut up with those strong arms while wearing that handsome, stoic expression?

Somehow, even with the array of hand saws and knives hanging next to the table, Ethan isn’t afraid at all. Tom has other tools at his disposal that he prefers to use on Ethan—his hands, his mouth, the thick, swollen manhood between his legs.

Shame flares through Ethan at how excited he is. He shouldn’t be. Tom has ended so many lives on this very table. Strung up bodies right here and allowed their blood to drain.

The shame is flammable—it only serves to fuel the arousal burning through Ethan’s body, engulfing him. He knows it’s wrong. He knows. He can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to stop it, maybe. 

Tom’s palms slide up Ethan’s calves and push under the dress. He squeezes Ethan’s thighs, and when he urges Ethan’s legs to spread, they spread willingly. 

Ethan leans forward to wrap his arms around Tom’s neck, draw him closer, claim his mouth. The kiss is slow and gentle, all soft tongue and careful teeth. All the while Tom flexes his grip on Ethan’s legs, strokes the smooth, sensitive skin of Ethan’s inner thighs.

Ethan doesn’t think he’s ever gotten hard so fast in his life. He pulls away from the kiss and leans back slightly. Slowly, Ethan hikes up the skirt for Tom, until his underwear is revealed. His erection strains at the women’s underwear, which are definitely not designed to hold a cock, let alone an engorged one. The hem of the underwear pulls away from his stomach in the front, elastic hem stretching with the strain of his fully erect member.

Tom halts all motion, scarcely breathing, as if struck to stunned awe by the sight.

Tom likes this, Ethan realizes. The dress. The underwear. The sight of him adorned in both. Ethan’s not entirely sure it’s the fact that they’re women’s clothing specifically that seizes Tom’s interest. He thinks… he thinks, maybe, he could be wearing anything new and Tom would be enraptured by him.

Ethan’s breath hitches in surprise when Tom drops to his knees in front of the table, suddenly settling between Ethan’s open legs. His heart rushes towards painful speeds at the sight of Tom between his legs, face so close to his straining erection.

Tom’s gaze holds Ethan’s own for what feels like an intensely long time before he dives in, mouth finding Ethan’s inner thighs and latching on. He sucks and bites at the pale flesh, which quickly blooms with a flush, and then the purple speckling of hickies. 

“So good,” Tom murmurs between bites. “So pretty.” 

Ethan’s inhale is half sob as he moans, overwhelmed by sensation.

“Prettiest thing I ever seen.” Tom’s voice reverberates, low and rough against Ethan’s skin.

Ethan’s body jerks at the drag of the slight stubble on Tom’s jaw as he nuzzles Ethan’s thigh.

Tom’s thumbs hook in one leg of the panties, then, lifting them, shifting the fabric and elastic until Ethan’s cock pops free from the leg hole. For a moment Ethan thinks Tom is just going to push the panties to the side and fuck him with them still on, but no—Tom wastes no time taking Ethan’s cock into his mouth.

Oh.

Oh god—Ethan’s never felt anything close to the soft, wet heat of Tom’s mouth.

He…

He never thought for a second that Tom would be willing to do this for him.

That anyone would ever want to.

Fuck—he—wow.

Tom’s mouth sinks down Ethan’s shaft, and then back up again, mouth creating a slight suction along the way. The pressure is intense and almost too much for Ethan to bear. He squirms involuntarily under the attention. 

Tom’s clearly clumsy, perhaps clumsier than Ethan was the first time he sucked Tom off. There’s a slight scrape of teeth, but Ethan likes it.

Tom holds Ethan steady at the base of his shaft while his other hand keeps a hard grip on Ethan’s hips to keep them pinned to the table. 

Once Tom gets the hang of it, he sucks so hard, taking Ethan so deep into his mouth, that Ethan screams and doubles over, hands flying to Tom’s short hair.

Tom moans in response, and Ethan can’t help but think frantically that it’s the most beautiful noise he’s ever heard. Tom’s vocalizations create a delicious vibration on Ethan’s cock, almost eliciting too much pleasure near the tip.

The sight of Tom between his legs is too much.

Too much, too much.

So strong. Everything about Tom’s body exudes strength—his demeanor, the curve of his jaw, the sheer mass of him.

And he’s kneeling for Ethan. Worshiping his body. Letting Ethan’s fingers scramble at his hair and push his mouth further down on his cock.

That’s what does it—the control. The way Tom just lets him force his cock deeper.

Ethan comes hard and with only a guttural moan as warning.

Tom doesn’t falter, stilling until Ethan’s body stops spasming.

And, unlike Ethan, Tom swallows every last drop of his come gratefully.

Tom rises, pulls Ethan’s head against his chest as Ethan pants loudly, struggling to come down from the shock of his orgasm.

Ethan slumps gratefully against Tom.

Fuck. He. He doesn’t know how he managed to do that after how exhausted he was. 

Hell, he didn’t even care that Jed is just meters from them, his back turned, but able to hear everything. 

After today, after everything that’s happened since Ethan first encountered the biker gang, he is fresh out of shame and embarrassment.

Once Ethan catches his breath, he reaches for Tom’s fly to take care of the bulge straining Tom’s jeans.

Tom catches his wrists, leans his hips out of reach. “No. That was just for you. I want it to be just for you.”

Ethan can’t explain why those words, that sentiment, renews the flare of red heat painted across his face.

Tom tucks Ethan back into the panties, smooths the dress back down over his legs. It strikes Ethan as absurdly sweet. Maybe he’s just delirious with the stress of the day, the heaviness of it. Gently, Tom lifts Ethan’s body into his arms and carries him, cradled close to his chest, past the curtain and into the bedroom.

“Thank you for everything,” Ethan says as Tom sets him on the bed. He kisses the corner of Tom’s mouth lazily, and then his cheek, and then all over his face without discretion. “I like you so much.”

“I like you too,” Tom grunts, surprised by Ethan’s words. 

Ethan wonders if they’re communicating properly—if _like_ is really the word they both mean right now. The right feeling. _Need_ seems more fitting. _I need you so much._ But that’s not all. Ethan’s so… affected by Tom.

Ethan tucks his head against Tom’s chest when he shifts to sit beside him on the bed. He can feel Tom’s heartbeat against his face, racing.

It’s mutual, isn’t it? The like, the need, the way in which they affect one another.

Seeming to remember something, Tom pulls away and gets to his feet. He crosses the room, shuffling through some of his broken drawers. Tom returns to Ethan with an offering.

A shirt.

Tom’s shirt.

“Don’t have to wear that anymore,” Tom says, indicating the dress. “Deserve something more comfortable.”

Ethan hesitates inappropriately, because he really is touched, but the thought of Beth’s potential anger scratches at the back of his mind. He quickly pushes that thought away and takes the shirt.

“Thank you,” he says, peeling the dress over his head and replacing it with the shirt. Tom’s shirt.

It’s several sizes too large and fits Ethan almost like a dress, though it isn’t quite long enough to cover his underwear—which he leaves on, in case Beth decides to barge in again in the morning. 

Ethan likes the shirt much better than the dress. It smells like Tom. He hopes he’ll be allowed to wear it tomorrow, to keep Tom’s scent on him all day. Right now, though, he has the real thing.

Ethan curls up with Tom on the small mattress, settling in for sleep. 

This.

This thing he has with Tom. It makes up for the awful day. For the awful situation.

And that terrifies Ethan, that anything can soothe that wound.

But that’s just it—it’s just soothed. Numbed. Bandaged and cleaned. But not healed.

Nothing has managed to heal the emotional wound he’s gained from this experience.

It’s seeping, raw as ever, and it’s only a matter of time before it festers into something stinking and fatal.

He needs to get out of this.

Get out of here.

He’ll have to bide his time.

How long will he have to live like this?

Ethan peers up at Tom—face serene with his eyes shut, lashes brushing just barely against his cheeks. 

He tries to imagine Tom meeting his parents.

His roommates.

Getting an apartment with him.

Cooking meals for each other.

Sleeping in a clean room with a bed big enough for both of them.

Showering together.

Trying to mend the psychological wounds left over from this place, this house. They’re both sure to be riddled with trauma.

Ethan wants that. 

Wants a normal life with Tom—whatever _normal_ will mean after this.

He wants it so bad.

He can never have it.

What the hell is he going to do?

Will he be able to go back to normal life at all?

He has to. It’s the only option.

Bide time.

Escape.

He’ll have to figure out the rest later.


	19. Chapter 19

It turns out that Ethan doesn’t have to wait long for a chance to escape. 

It rains the next day, firing-squad sheets of fat droplets. The downpour rattles the windows and reduces fields outside to patches of large puddles. The storm darkens the skies, flashes of lightning preceding booming thunder. 

Ethan is washing dishes when it starts. In the morning he reluctantly changed back into the dress, sure that if he wore Tom’s clothes instead that Beth would see it as a small form of rebellion.

No, Ethan can’t risk provoking Tom’s family in any way. Especially Beth. He’s lucky that Beth’s abuse towards him so far has been solely emotional. Psychological. It hasn’t escalated to physical abuse. Yet. But maybe physical abuse would be better than this. There’s no easy treatment for emotional wounds. Maybe he should prefer beatings.

The rain beats against the roof in a way that would be calming if it wasn’t for the fact that calm is impossible for Ethan lately outside of Tom’s arms.

The plate Ethan’s scrubbing slips from his hands when he jumps at a boom of thunder that sounds directly overhead, shaking the house. He’s never heard the whip-crack of thunder that loud before, or seen so bright a flash. The storm must be directly overhead. 

Ethan flinches, scrambling back when the plate crashes to the floor, shattering into jagged ceramic triangles. He expects immediate retaliation, bracing for Beth to yell, or hit him. Instead, Beth pays him no mind, instead rushing to the sink to look out the window above the soaking dishes. 

“Oh, holy hell,” she gasps, horrified.

Ethan peers around her, trying to spot whatever she’s seeing out the window. The first thing he notices is a flash of pink as a pig dashes through the grass as fast as its stubby legs will carry it. 

The animals have escaped their pen? How?

It’s then Ethan notices the fire blazing distantly in the barn, building quickly despite the rain, as if the raging droplets do nothing to quell it. 

What started it? An electrical fire caused by the rain? The lightning strike itself? Did the lighting hit the barn?

It’s then Ethan spots Tom hurrying across the field towards the barn. He must have been at the animal pens, must have abandoned them in a hurry, left the gate open or didn’t latch it properly in his haste to reach the barn. 

Ethan whines in protest when Tom disappears into the smoking barn, likely trying to salvage whatever contents within are worth anything. 

“Stupid man!” Ma exclaims from behind Ethan and Beth, craning to see past their shoulders. “The furniture don’t matter if he lets that fire spread to the house!”

Sally rushes up next, standing on the tips of her toes and bracing her hands on her sister’s shoulders to peer out the window. “Won’t the rain put the fire out?”

“No, you stupid child, does it look like the rain’s putting it out?!” Ma yells, smacking Sally on the side of the head hard enough to make her stumble. “Get out there!”

“And do what?!” Sally yells back, throwing her arms up to shield from another blow.

Beth is quiet, dangerously so, but Ethan can see the panic written plainly on her face.

“Get the damn hose!” Ma screams. “Put that fire out before the barn collapses! And for God’s sake, wrangle the swine back into their pen! Go!”

Sally and Beth don’t hesitate to obey, rushing from the kitchen and down the hall, the front door slamming open and then shut.

This is his chance.

Beth and Sally are thoroughly distracted by the storm and the fire and the escaped animals. Even Tom… Even Tom won’t be able to realize quickly enough if Ethan makes a run for it.

Without thinking, Ethan starts moving to follow Beth and Sally, planning to run in the opposite direction of the barn as soon as he hits the front porch. 

Fingernails dig hard into his arm as Ma shoots her hand out to grab him, halting him.

“Where do you think you’re going, boy?”

“Shouldn’t I go help with the pigs? The fire?” Ethan asks, heart pounding in sick anticipation. He’s close—so close. This is the only chance he might ever have.

“No,” Ma replies firmly, eyes narrowed. “You’ll stay in the house where I can keep an eye on you.”

Ethan’s heart sinks, his insides twist into a messy knot.

“Okay,” he says, as neutrally as he can manage. And then, meekly, “I’ll get started on laundry, then.”

Ma waves him off, more concerned with lighting up a cigarette and watching her children out the window. 

Ethan retreats to the hall, hesitating. The front door is shut. The old woman would surely hear it squeak on its hinges if he were to make a run for it now. 

Could she catch him? Ethan isn’t sure—but a quick glance behind him into the kitchen reveals the gun strapped to Ma’s hip in its leather holster, in plain sight. The whole time he’s been here, Ethan hasn’t seen her without her gun. She carries it on herself so plainly. Flashing it like a warning sign. The holster. The black metal of the gun’s grip. The sight is more effective than caution tape.

Even if she can’t outrun him, she may be able to shoot him. There’s no cover from the house to the tree line. It’s too far to run without the woman having a clear shot at his back.

Is he being too cautious? Can anyone aim that well with a pistol? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking know. He only has one chance at escape.

He needs to think. Needs to find some way to make sure the old woman won’t notice him making a break for it. 

The barn fire has been a good distraction. But not good enough.

The fire, the fire.

What can Ethan do, other than pray the fire spreads to the house and forces Ma to flee with Daisy in a panic?

It won’t though, will it? Beth, Sally, and Tom will make sure of that.

Shit, shit, shit.

Right now Ethan has to avoid suspicion. Move his feet. Act normal.

Ethan makes his way up the stairs to the second floor to collect laundry. Ma pays him little attention because his only real means of escape is the front door, which she is well within earshot of.

Upstairs, Ethan can hear Daisy in her room, talking to herself in her melodic high-pitched voice. She must be playing with dolls. At least _she’s_ distracted, seemingly oblivious to the storm raging in the clouds overhead. Not that a child would be able to stop him from escaping. The most she could do is sound the alarm.

Ethan moves past Daisy’s room and into Ma’s room. Focuses on collecting her laundry basket. He needs to at least pretend to be doing chores while he thinks.

He moves quietly to the window in the bedroom. When he tries to open it, he finds it isn’t just locked, but nailed shut. Why? Probably because this family is so paranoid about intruders.

Futilely, Ethan picks at one of the nails in the window frame, trying to wiggle it free. It doesn’t budge.

There are tools in the basement… should he attempt to sneak a hammer upstairs? Try to take the nails out?

He peers out the window to the grass below. It’s a straight drop from the second story. He’d have to knot sheets together as a makeshift rope if he even wanted to attempt a climb down from the window.

It’s too time-consuming. Too risky. And of course breaking the window isn’t an option.

What if Beth hadn’t caught him in Tom’s bed yesterday? What if Ethan was locked in the basement right now during this chaos? Jed is. 

And. If the fire were to spread to the house, anyone in the basement would be trapped there, locked inside as the house blazed.

The basement.

The gears churning his thoughts stutter and then spin full speed—_the basement._

The dots connect when Ethan’s distracted gaze lands on the pack of cigarettes and lighter lying on Ma’s bedside table next to an overflowing ashtray.

A lighter.

Fire.

There are bright red gas cans full of gasoline stored in the basement.

Ethan’s had to deal with the heady smell radiating off of them every time he’s been in the main part of the basement.

A lighter. Gas cans.

A fire in the house.

That’s what he needs to drive Ma and Daisy out.

That’s all he needs to distract them thoroughly.

A fire in the house.

Ethan unceremoniously drops the basket of clothes. It spills a dull rainbow of threadbare garments onto the floor.

He needs to do this.

Right now.

As quietly as possible, Ethan flies back down the stairs, sneaking past the kitchen as mouse-like as possible. Ma is still fretting at the window, on her third cigarette now. The continued onslaught of rain against the house does well to mask Ethan’s footsteps.

He hurries into the familiar basement, nearly slipping down the splintering stairs in his haste. He makes a beeline for the gas cans, ignoring Jed’s grunts, clearly meant to get his attention. The large red can is heavy but Ethan hoists it into his arms nonetheless, careful to move slowly now as he makes his way back up the basement stairs.

Despite the thick gasoline smell radiating from the can, Ethan hugs it close to his body to keep it from sloshing around inside the can too much as he dashes past the kitchen again. 

His footsteps are louder, more frantic as he runs up the stairs to the second floor, flying past Daisy’s room and into Ma’s.

His heart pounds, fingers shaking as he removes the bright yellow cap from the can and sloshes thick, stinking streams of gasoline onto the bed, letting it soak into the blankets and mattress. He spreads more of the translucent, rainbow fluid onto the floor until the can is empty. He’s sure his arms and clothes smell like gasoline, but it doesn’t matter. This needs to happen quickly, too quickly for Ma to realize what’s going on. 

He scrambles for the lighter on the nightstand, hesitating momentarily, not sure how to light the gasoline without burning himself. It feels like an eternity of enduring the frantic heartbeat choking his throat before Ethan spots Ma’s clothes spilled onto the floor where he dropped them. Ethan picks up a sock and flicks the lighter, holding the cloth in the flame until it ignites. Then he steels himself, takes a deep breath, and throws the sock onto the bed.

The gasoline catches fire instantly, spreading along the trail of soaked sheets. It’s spreading so fast, traveling towards the puddles on the floor.

Ethan runs out of the room, leaving the door open behind him. The flames can already be seen roaring within the room, their light dancing on the walls. Ethan leans against the wall in the hallway and waits.

He needs to wait until the flames build. 

He needs to catch his breath. Try to calm his unwieldy heartbeat.

It doesn’t take long for the flames to start spilling out into the hallway, thick smoke collecting against the ceiling.

Ethan feels guilty for starting a fire with a child in the house. But. She’ll be okay. He rushes into Daisy’s room, bare feet slipping on the wooden floor. 

The child looks up, startled, and then glaring—she looks as if she’s about to open her mouth to scream for her mother or grandma, but Ethan doesn’t offer an explanation as he scoops the child off the floor from her circle of toys.

The child wails in protest, but snaps her mouth shut momentarily as Ethan bursts into the smoke-filled hallway. From over Ethan’s shoulder, Daisy should have a clear view of the fire roaring in her mother’s room.

That sends Daisy into a full-blown panic, she screams, “Let me go! Let me go! You’re too slow!”

Tiny fists beat against Ethan’s chest in protest as the girl struggles, but Ethan tightens his grip around her small body and takes off down the stairs.

Ma meets him at the base of the stairs, summoned by Daisy's cries. The look on her face is absolute fury. Her hand instinctively goes to the hilt of her gun—but she hesitates when Ethan shoves Daisy into her arms.

“Fire,” Ethan breathes, lungs heaving from physical exertion, the smoke, the sheer terror of how risky what he’s doing is. “Fire spread to the house.”

“Fire!” Daisy screams. “I saw it!”

“You, you need to get somewhere safe,” Ethan pants.

Ma pushes past him, nearly knocking him over as she rounds the foot of the stairs and peers up them, into the second-floor hallway.

Flames roar into the hallway now, licking the peeling wallpaper until it curls and falls in clumps of ash.

Ma gasps in alarm, and, paying Ethan no concern, shoves Ethan to the ground in her desperation to barrel out of the house. She hoists the front door open and runs outside with Daisy in her arms. She’s out and running, screaming, towards the barn so fast that she doesn’t bother to close the door behind her. The door swings on its hinges, pushed and pulled by the wind, which also hurls rain into the house.

Ethan is left alone. Forgotten in the chaos.

He did it.

He did it!

Now’s Ethan’s chance. 

He rushes into the doorway, a slew of rain pelting his face. It’s cool and wonderful and Ethan’s about to take off in the other direction from the family, towards the opposite tree line, when he remembers Jed.

Jed.

Trapped in the basement in a house Ethan set ablaze.

He…

He can’t be responsible for the death of another human being.

Even if it is indirect.

Even if Jed is cruel and violent and maybe even deserves a death like this, at the hands of his own victim.

Ethan makes up his mind in an instant. He knows what he has to do.

He turns on his heel and runs full speed towards the basement door, taking the stairs as fast as his feet will carry him. He does slip this time, calf scraping painfully on the wooden steps as he slides. He barely has time to catch himself before he hurls his body over to the table where Jed is bound. 

Ethan unhooks the chains clumsily, fingers pulling desperately at the knots of rope around Jed’s wrists next. They won’t come undone.

The smell of smoke is reaching the basement now.

After a long moment of panic, Ethan remembers Tom’s knife collection. He quickly retrieves a knife from the wall and hurries back to Jed, clumsily cutting him free. He doesn’t bother trying to cut the duct tape off of Jed’s mouth.

It doesn’t matter, Jed’s already clawing at the silver tape, ripping it from his face.

“The family’s distracted,” Ethan manages, struggling for breath, his lungs straining not from the smoke but from all the running. “There’s a fire. Lightning. It’s storming. We have to go.”

Ethan takes off running again, then, not looking back to see if Jed is following. He’s done enough. He’s freed him.

And besides, Ethan can hear the man limping behind him. 

Part of Ethan seizes in fear, knowing Jed is free. The man who pointed a gun at him. Who beat him into the road. Who may have very well ended up killing Ethan, if it wasn’t for Tom’s intervention. 

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

Ethan did the right thing.

He still has Tom’s knife he used to cut Jed free.

It feels more like a souvenir than a weapon.

Could Ethan actually stab someone if he had to?

He grips the hilt of the knife so hard his knuckles drain of color.

Upstairs, there’s no sign of life. All clear.

The door is still being whipped around by the gusts, rain pouring onto the floor. The fire hasn’t made it downstairs yet, but the house is quickly filling with thick smoke.

Ethan peers out the doorway and doesn’t see anyone immediately outside.

This is it.

He takes off for the tree line opposite the barns. Runs like hell. His feet splash loudly in the drowning grass, flecks of mud flying to spray his bare legs. The white fabric of the dress quickly turns translucent as it soaks up the rain, skirt whipping around his legs. Ethan has to hike the skirt up to run faster, the knife still held precariously in one hand along with the bunched up skirt.

Jed is still splashing behind him—at least, he thinks it’s Jed.

What if it’s not Jed? What if it’s the family—or worse, Tom?

Oh, god, Tom.

Ethan’s just leaving him without warning.

They’ve never discussed Ethan’s desire to escape, though surely Tom must have known.

Ethan doesn’t truly know if Tom even wants that, if he meant it when he said he wanted Ethan to be free. He doesn’t know if Tom would ever be content standing up to his family and getting breaking free of the abuse cycle himself.

Paranoid, Ethan whips his head around to look behind him.

It’s just Jed.

Just Jed.

Not Tom.

Jed is keeping up pretty well for not being as well fed as Ethan the past few days. Jed’s wellbeing wasn’t cared for like Ethan’s was.

Tom. Tom cared for him. Cared if he lived or died.

Tom.

Ethan may never see Tom again.

Fuck.

His pace doesn’t falter. He runs so hard his legs burn.

They hit the tree line without the family seeming to notice.

Ethan laughs out loud, giddy with the freedom. But he still has a long way ahead of him to make sure he’s not going to be tracked down by the family when they notice his absence. They have vehicles and means to catch up to him quickly.

Ethan can survive the next few days in the forest until he reaches civilization. It’ll be easy compared to what he’s gone through.

He knows he’s parallel with the road now, in the cover of the trees. He remembers from his map that the next town is far, but not too far. 

He’ll make it. He can. He has to.


	20. Chapter 20

Ethan makes it ten minutes into the trees before he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. The grip yanks him backwards, his feet flying out from under him on the sopping grass. He hits the ground hard with a splash, the knife in his hand slipping from his grip. 

Ethan whips around on the ground like a fish flopping on land, expecting to see Beth or Sally or even Tom—but no, it’s Jed.

“Think I’d let you live to tattle on what we done to you?” Jed yells over the patter of the rain striking through the treetops overhead.

Ethan doesn’t spare a single moment for disappointment, for disheartened protest about how he _saved Jed’s life_. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Ethan knew he was saving a man who didn’t deserve it. 

In a flash, Ethan lunges for the knife discarded in the wet grass. Jed lurches towards the knife just as quickly, but Ethan gets hold of it first, gripping the handle so hard his knuckles turn white. He points it defensively at Jed.

This gives Ethan the leverage to scuttle backwards on his hands and knees, getting some distance between himself and Jed. All the while he brandishes the knife.

“Stay back!” Ethan warns through gritted teeth. His mind reels, hyper-focused on Jed’s every move as he stands over Ethan. He doesn’t want to stab someone. Not even Jed. Doesn’t want to hear the same squelch of human flesh penetrated by a blade that he heard in Tom’s basement when Ricky was disposed of. 

He can’t stab someone. Doesn’t want to. Can’t. Doesn’t want to.

Jed sneers. He knows. He knows. He knows Ethan isn’t prepared for the kind of violence it would take to stop him.

In one fluid movement, Jed kicks the knife out of Ethan’s hand. Ethan lunges for it again, but this time Jed doesn’t—instead, he throws his much heavier body weight onto Ethan, before he can reach the knife. Jed pins him down to the mud. Straddles him.

Of course.

Jed doesn’t need the knife. He can take Ethan’s life with his fists alone.

Ethan flinches. Considers begging. Knows it won’t matter. No amount of bartering can save him from a man who would attempt to take his life after Ethan saved him.

He didn’t have to save Jed.

He could have just left him in the burning house.

Why didn’t he just leave Jed?

Maybe he should have, maybe he should have.

Why did Tom save Ethan in the first place?

For what?

For nothing. Ethan’s just going to die here.

Tom should have let Ethan die. Like Jed was going to let him die, bleeding out on the side of the road from the gang’s beating.

Tom didn’t let him die. Tom went out of his way to make sure Ethan survived this whole ordeal.

Why?

Why?

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Jed growls as his fist connects with Ethan’s jaw. Another punch follows. Again and again. 

Rainwater blurs Ethan’s vision, obscures Jed’s furious and delighted expression.

It doesn’t matter. Ethan can’t even see Jed or the reality playing out before him. It’s like his brain numbs, retreats into itself.

All he can see is a succession of memories of Tom from the past few days.

Tom just saved Ethan because he was attracted to him, didn’t he? Because he didn’t know better?

“You think I wasn’t gonna punish you for flouncing around like you’re so much better at surviving than me?” Jed’s berating penetrates Ethan’s haze better than the continued beating. “You disgusting fucking slut, giving him your body just to save your own skin. No fucking dignity.”

That’s right, Tom didn’t know any better. Tom didn’t know that Ethan’s appearance is nothing special. That there are a thousand average looking guys like Ethan in the world, hell, in the state.

Blood soaks into Ethan’s wet dress, diluted to translucency by the rainwater. Ethan doesn’t know where the blood’s coming from—him, he guesses. His nose, maybe? His split lip? Perhaps just the impact of Jed’s knuckles against his collarbone is enough to break skin.

Tom was so angry in the beginning every time Ethan tried to talk to him. But Ethan never stopped trying, and that only seemed to frustrate Tom further.

Did Tom actually like Ethan for who he was? The person who foolishly kept trying to get through to a dangerous man who might as well have been from a completely different world?

Jed pauses in his beating. Ethan realizes too slowly that the man is reaching for the knife. 

Okay, Ethan thinks. Okay.

He’s too weak from the beating at this point to put up a fight.

He accepts his fate.

Maybe that’s what he should have done all along.

...No—he doesn’t regret it. Doesn’t regret his experience with Tom.

Doesn’t regret having met Tom.

Doesn’t regret knowing him, as much as he got to in their short time together.

So, he’ll choose to be optimistic again.

Choose, in his last moments, to believe Tom wasn’t just kind to him solely because of a physical attraction.

Maybe Tom was desperate for human connection, but so was Ethan. And Ethan gave that to Tom as best he could.

And.

In the end…

It doesn’t feel wrong.

Not anymore.


	21. Chapter 21

Ethan braces for a barrage of stabs that never come. His eyes are squeezed shut, but he can still hear the heavy patter of raindrops all around them. Anxiety swells in his chest when there’s no pain, no pop of the tip of a blade breaking through his skin and sinking into his chest.

His eyes fly open, wide and terrified. Maybe Jed is waiting for this—waiting for Ethan to open his eyes and see the face of the man who kills him.

Jed is wearing a dangerously contemplative expression. He’s staring at Ethan. At Ethan’s heaving chest, the only part of him that dares move under the threat of the blade.

Dread sinks into the pit of Ethan’s stomach like poison.

No.

Jed holds the knife blade at Ethan’s throat, scaring him to stillness as he lifts momentarily off of Ethan to yank up the dress until it’s bunched on Ethan’s chest.

Exposing his stomach. The underwear Beth forced him into.

Rain from the sky and from Jed’s dripping hair splash against Ethan’s pale skin, rolling in trails down his sides.

Jed sneers, lip curling over his teeth in a wicked grin. “Bet that hick fucker wouldn’t like knowing someone else played with his toy.”

The words are enough—fight spills into Ethan like something scrambling and animal. His body writhes beneath Jed, struggling to buck and flee—but it’s no use, Jed’s weight on him is too much. The knife at his neck is too much.

Ethan wants to stay calm, wills himself to stay calm, to barter as he did with Tom. His instincts won’t allow it. Instead, he screams as loud as he can for only the trees to hear. The screams continue between gasps for breath, ripping painfully through his throat, depleting his lungs until they burn for more air.

His voice is full of sob when he screams, “No! Fucking no!”

Jed only laughs, seeming to enjoy Ethan’s struggling. “Careful boy, I don’t need you alive. Your body will stay warm long enough to do the deed.”

That sends Ethan’s body into overdrive, his screams loud enough to send his own ears ringing. What the fuck—_what the fuck!?_ Ethan struggles so hard that his own bucking sends the knife slicing shallowly into his collar bone, the hot blood that spills from the wound contrasts sickeningly with the cold rain.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Ethan screams, his voice cracking, but he forces the sound out of himself like something ripped from him.

It’s the screaming that saves him.

Neither Ethan nor Jed hear the footsteps above the screaming.

Not until Tom is looming over them.

Jed yelps in shock when Tom pulls him off of Ethan like a cat hoisted into the air by its scruff. As if Jed, a full grown man, weighs nothing.

Ethan squints through the rainwater, the blood, the hot tears dripping down his face. He hadn’t realized he was sobbing, hadn’t noticed the way the rims of his puffy eyes burned.

Maybe the tears just started.

Maybe it’s relief.

Maybe the sight of Tom just does that to him—crumples him into a mess of _thank god, thank god, thank god._  
_  
_Tom towers over them both, as strong and imposing as he was the first time Ethan ever saw him. 

Relief washes over Ethan. Comfort. Precarious safety he should have never trusted in the first place, but hasn’t failed him yet.

Ethan lets his body fall back against the sopping grass, his head splashing as it hits the ground. His chest heaves. It feels like he’s drowning with the rain pelting his face. He looks up through the treetops to see the dark sky, clouds roiling like a school of fish striking the surface for insects.

Ethan pays no mind to the wet thuds, the scuffle going on beyond him. The slippery smacks of wet fists striking wet skin. Puddles splash as boots scramble for purchase. A succession of blows—and then something else. A tearing, carving sound all too familiar to Ethan. The same sound Ricky’s body made when dismembered. The same sound Ethan expected to come when Jed was straddling him, knife in hand.

Ethan turns his head.

Tom is leaning low over Jed’s body, which is sprawled vulnerably. Jed’s doubled over, a knife in his sternum. Tom’s fist on the hilt. 

Unwanted flashes of memory spill through Ethan’s mind: Tom leaning over him, lust in his eyes. Tom between his legs, fist on the hilt of Ethan’s cock. Tom carving Ricky up on the metal table. Tom hoisting Ethan onto the same table, drawing pleasure from Ethan in waves.

Back in reality, Tom pulls away. Stands, leaving the knife protruding from Jed’s chest. Tom’s shoulders are squared, his back straight. Imposing and frightening and comforting all at once. His attention hasn’t flashed to Ethan a single time.

Tom lifts his boot and places it on the hilt of the knife in Jed’s chest. He pushes with his boot, forcing the blade to carve deeper into the man's body, twisting at an unnatural angle. Blood flows from the wound, soaks into Jed’s filthy shirt. Vibrant red washes to translucent pink in the rain.

Tom keeps pushing on the blade with his boot. Jed gasps, body jerking and twitching as he groans, blood gurgling up his throat and spraying out of his mouth. He tries to speak. Can’t. Eventually Jed falls back, unmoving. Unconscious or dead. It doesn’t matter which—he’s not waking up from this.

Tom kick’s Jed’s limp body aside. Doesn’t reach for the knife. Doesn’t look at Ethan. Hasn’t this whole time. He just stands there, eyes on the ground, breath heavy and expression almost blank… except, there’s an anxiety there. A restrained fury. A biting of his tongue.

Ethan manages to push himself up onto his elbows, feeling more vulnerable than he ever has, mud and blood-soaked skirts pooling around his legs. Half-lying in the mud and rainwater. Guilt washing over him harder than the storm.

He tried to escape.

He tried to escape and Tom knows it.

He tried to escape without telling Tom.

What would have happened if he had told Tom? Would Tom have stopped him? Became angry and violent? Ethan has no idea. He hopes not, but… he doesn’t know. He honestly doesn’t know.

“Tom,” Ethan says, because that’s the only clear thought racing through his mind right now: _Tom, Tom, Tom. _His chest ties itself up in knots, gut twisting like a wrung cloth. 

He likes this man.

Genuinely.

He likes Tom.

He _needs_ Tom.

Needs Tom to not be angry with him.

Needs Tom to understand that Ethan felt things, felt _everything—_that none of this was a ruse. It would have been easier if it had been. That wouldn’t hurt so much. That wouldn’t hurt now.

“Please,” Ethan pleads, strained and raspy from all the screaming, from the emotion welling up inside his sinuses. “I had to. You know I had to.”

Tom turns to him sharply, eyes narrowed.

“Your family wanted to kill me. I have no idea what they were going to do to me next, but I know what they’re capable of.” What Tom’s capable of.

Only silence from Tom.

“I had to keep myself alive,” Ethan whispers, small and barely audible. His voice cracks. “Don’t you want me alive?”

Tom’s expression softens at that, then sinks to something far away. Something defeated. “Didn’t tell me. Didn’t warn me.”

“There wasn’t time,” Ethan says. And then, because honesty has gotten him this far, “And even if there was time to tell you, I don’t think I could have. I trust you despite how reckless that is. I want to trust you. But I know it’s not safe to trust you—I didn’t know how you would react. I can’t pretend I don’t know what you’re capable of.”

The knife chopping through Ricky’s bones.

The chainsaw’s teeth chewing through that first biker.

Human meat stored in a freezer.

Strength that Ethan could never hope to contest.

“I was afraid you might hurt me,” Ethan admits. Afraid Tom might kill him. Stuff him in the freezer. “I didn’t want to believe you would. But I didn’t know for sure. I didn’t know.”

Ethan covers his face with shaky fingers. Sobs outright.

Tom’s still quiet.

Ethan laughs humorlessly behind his fingers. He looks up at the sky, and then lobs his head towards Tom. “You know what’s worse than all of that? I think, most of all, I was afraid you wouldn’t like me anymore if I told you I wanted to leave.”

Tom’s mouth falls open slightly, surprised. His brows knit in confusion, or maybe concern.

“I’ve been thinking over and over about how I could leave this place and take you with me. A plan that had both of us leaving together,” Ethan says, dripping with self-hatred. “It’s insane, after what I’ve seen you do. I know it is. But I want it so bad. I can’t picture my old life with you in it. Hell, I can’t picture myself in my old life at all anymore. But I have to go back. Go back to the real world, not this hell your family made for you and everyone who crosses your path.”

Tom’s stiff posture deflates just barely perceptively at that.

“I don’t care if you belong in the real world with me or not. I don’t care that it’ll never work. I want to try. Please, come with me.”

A long moment passes.

Slowly, Tom reaches out to help Ethan up.

Ethan flinches at first, something in his instincts bracing for a strike.

It doesn’t come.

Of course it doesn’t.

Tom’s never hurt him like that.

Ethan calms himself with a few deep breaths. The fear in his chest is replaced, unbidden, with warmth. He doesn’t care if it’s awful and wrong that he’s warmed by a man who makes him flinch. He just wants to chase the relief that comes after, sweet and flowing through his nerves like honey.

Ethan accepts Tom’s hand.

And, too tentative and gentle for a man of his stature, Tom pulls Ethan against his chest. Ethan falls against him willingly. He hadn’t realized how cold the rain had made him. But Tom’s arms are warm.

Ethan stands on his toes and kisses Tom, rain getting in his eyes. He doesn’t care. The kiss tastes like sweat and rainwater and Tom, Tom, Tom.

He kisses Tom’s face all over, claws his fingers into the back of his short hair, growls possessively when Tom tries to pull away.

Tom chuckles, genuine and rumbling and with more amusement than Ethan has ever seen from the man. “I’ll go with you. I’ll go. Anywhere.”

“Promise?” Ethan asks, heart flying in his chest, twisting painfully with emotion. He’s smiling and crying and pawing at Tom’s chest.

Tom smiles, too. Toothy and bright. Brighter than Ethan thought possible. His blue eyes are soft, pupils blown wide as his gaze flicks over Ethan’s face.

“Yeah,” Tom answers simply. Firmly. Sure.

It’s a very _Tom_ kind of answer, and Ethan can’t imagine trusting anything more than this man’s confident, quiet promise.


	22. Chapter 22

They decide the best course of action is to turn back. The family only owns one vehicle and Ethan’s van must be as good as lost in the blaze of the barn fire. If they can manage to procure the family’s truck, they can drive away without worry of being followed, without the stress of surviving in the woods until they make it to the next town.

Tom carries Ethan towards the farmhouse on his back. Ethan clings to him, both of their clothes uncomfortably wet. The storm is still raging. Tom loops around the tree line surrounding the house, right at the edge so that they’re obscured by the trees. They aren’t quite close enough to the edge of the tree line to make out what’s happening on the property.

Are the fires still raging? Have the animals been contained?

If the fires are still going, is it even possible to get help from firefighters this far into the country? If so, how long will they take to arrive? How will they know to arrive?

Ethan has so many questions. He starts with a simple one.

“How did you know that I left?” Ethan asks, quiet. His throat is sore from the screaming. Luckily, riding on Tom’s back, his head is on Tom’s shoulder, face close to his ear. “How did you find me?”

“Went looking as soon as they told me the house was on fire.”

“Oh.”

“Searched the house best I could. Thought you might be trapped inside. Didn’t give up looking.”

“Oh no,” Ethan breathes. He hadn’t even thought about the possibility that Tom would rush into the burning house to go looking for him. “Tom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to put anyone in danger, especially not you—”

Tom snorts, shakes his head. “Don’t worry so much.”

“But—”

“Stop. You worry too much.”

Ethan swallows his protest. Nuzzles his cold nose against Tom’s warm neck. “How did you find me in the woods?”

“Saw a glimpse of you running into the trees through the window,” Tom answers. “Would have kept searching the house if I hadn’t.”

“I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hush,” Tom scolds, and then, “Wouldn’t have found you in the trees, neither, if it weren’t for hearing your voice.”

“My screams?”

Tom grunts in confirmation.

Ethan almost laughs an angry, humorless laugh. Somehow he manages to staunch the dry amusement before it manifests. Ethan had accepted his fate when he thought Jed was going to kill him. He wasn’t going to scream, not until Jed forced a visceral reaction from him with a threat of sexual assault. 

If Jed hadn’t been as awful and disgusting as he was, Tom may have never found Ethan in time.

Ethan was wrong. Wrong to give up when he did. Wrong to accept his assumed death at Jed’s hands. He should have fought. Kept trying. Trying, trying, trying to survive until the very end. Isn’t that what he’s been doing this whole time, with Tom? Trying to survive no matter the cost?

Wasn’t it worth it?

Isn’t he free?

He sure as hell feels free, even as he lets himself depend on Tom.

Even with Tom still here, Ethan feels free.

And he can’t bring himself to care if that’s wrong.

Tom finally edges towards the perimeter of the expansive field the farm rests on.

Ethan perks up a little to get a look at what they’re walking into.

The house is spewing flames, smoke made thicker by the rain. Ethan caused that. The death of a home. All the family heirlooms stored in the basement. Family photographs. 

He hates himself for the guilt that writhes in his gut. He shouldn’t feel bad if this family loses everything—their possessions, their home, their farm. Those are just things. Objects. At least they have their lives. It’s more than their victims can say.

“Truck’s gone,” Tom says, a thread of concern in his voice. He’s almost never concerned—always so stoic and strong-willed. Is he stressed about making sure they escape together smoothly, or is it the possibility of being found betraying his family that scares him?

“What about my van? Are you sure the fire got to it?”

“Not sure. Fire was almost out in the barn when I dropped the hose and went looking for you,” Tom replies. “We can check.”

It takes a few minutes to make their way around the tree line to get close enough to the barn to justify exiting the trees. There’s no sign of Tom’s family, but there’s a large stretch of field between the trees and the barn. They’ll be completely visible the whole way to the barn.

“I’m going to run,” Tom says, and then, “hold on.”

That’s all the warning Ethan has before Tom sprints across the field, Ethan clinging for dear life on his back, legs wrapped around Tom’s hips, gripping him tighter. He doesn’t know how the hell Tom’s able to carry him when everything is made slippery by the rain—their clothes, their skin, the grass beneath his feet. And yet Tom can not only carry him, but run while doing it.

It would be exhilarating fun if it weren’t for the circumstances. Ethan has to blink the rain rapidly from his eyes to frantically scan their surroundings. 

Still no sign of Ethan’s family, even as they round the front of the barn. 

They’re nowhere to be seen.

They must not have stayed to watch their house burn down. That explains the missing truck.

The barn is still smoking but the fire appears to have mostly died out. Tom urges Ethan to slip from his back, gently coaxing him onto his own feet.

“Wait here,” Tom says. Before Ethan can protest, Tom takes off into the smoldering barn.

Ethan does as he’s told. He waits, barely able to stand on his own with the beating he took from Jed. He’ll definitely have to seek medical attention as soon as possible. He has no idea how that will pan out with Tom along for the ride. Will Tom try to convince him to keep this ordeal quiet? Dissuade him from going to the cops, or the hospital, or his family—anywhere that people might ask questions?

Ethan can’t let that happen. He’ll reassure Tom if that happens. He’ll convince him that whatever steps they have to take next, they’ll be the best choice for both of them.

God, what is Ethan doing? The future is more terrifying than those first nights in Tom’s basement. 

He’ll get through it. They’ll both get through it. Ethan wants to get through this with Tom.

Tom. It’s been an excruciating few minutes since Tom disappeared into the barn. Ethan can’t see him through the lingering smoke. He’s just about to limp inside to see if Tom needs help when red brake lights pierce through the smoke and Tom backs Ethan’s van out of the barn.

Ethan could just about cry with relief at the sight of his van. His heart swells with elation. It’s real. It’s finally real. He’s really getting out of here. He made it. He’s alive and he’s leaving this awful place.

Ethan hobbles up to the passenger side and climbs clumsily in. Tom grabs his arm and helps him into the seat. Somehow, Ethan gathers enough strength to pull the door shut behind him.

He never thought he would be so happy to get out of the rain.

Ethan throws his head back against the seat. Squeezes his eyes shut and breathes. It’s all he can do—breathe.

Tom doesn’t wait for any direction, he backs the van up through the field, swerving to turn onto the road.

Ethan cracks his eyes to check Tom’s intentions once and for all… and he finds them genuine. Tom hasn’t pointed the car in the direction of the gas station down the road—where Ethan assumes Tom’s family is gathered. No, he turns the other direction on the stretch of road.

Away. Running away. With Ethan. Just as he promised.

It’s all the reassurance Ethan needs to rest. To leave his fate in Tom’s hands.

Tom peels off down the road, water splashed so high by the tire that it arches upwards on either side of the van, looking like dripping angel wings. Tom turns the heat up, warm air gushing audibly through the vents. The windshield wipers are a familiar, steady noise as they beat the rain away.

Ethan reaches towards the dashboard, warming his hands gratefully on the heat vent. He’s shivering and wet and still wearing the fucking dress.

“I was almost out of gas,” Ethan remembers. “Fuck. I was running on empty. What are we going to—”

“Filled it,” Tom replies, cutting him off. “Days ago. Beth wanted to drive it far away. Dispose of it. She never got around to it.”

Ethan relaxes again. He wishes he had an unwashed outfit to change into somewhere in the back of the van. But, no, Beth really did make him burn every last one of his possessions. Besides this van.

It turns out that’s the one thing Ethan needed to escape. The van is his saving grace, even as battered as it is from the rocks the Bikers threw at it. The broken driver’s side window allows Tom to get pelted by the wind and rain. But his van is here. Working. Not even the barn fire managed to destroy it.

He loves the stupid, beat up thing.

Eventually, Tom turns down a fork in the road, and then another.

They’re starting to get far enough away from Tom’s farm that Ethan truly begins to breathe easier.

Tom keeps sneaking glances at him. Glances that Ethan returns, because he’s seldom taken his eyes off Tom since the moment he first saw him.

When they meet each other’s eyes, Tom is always the first to smile, small but genuine. Like he has no regrets about what he’s giving up to save Ethan’s life, to run away with him.

Ethan leans across the gap between the seats to rest his head on Tom’s shoulder.

They keep driving until they hit the edge of the storm. The rain stops abruptly. The sun comes out, making the wet road glisten, the plants and trees sparkling with droplets of water. 

The storm has already passed through this area. 

Ethan wonders if that’s how his life will be, someday. If he’ll ever get to the point where the storm has passed through and he’s left washed and clean, glistening in the sun, gentle birdsong tentatively reappearing throughout the trees.

He looks at Tom. Squeezes his arm.

Ethan doesn’t know what the future holds, or how hard it will be to traverse. But he’s never felt more optimistic in his entire life.


End file.
